


Postern of Fate

by ljs



Series: Investigations and Acquisitions [6]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 09:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 45,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the final story in the Investigations and Acquisitions main arc (although not the final I&A story), in which the threat to London becomes clear, and old friends and acquaintances are called in to help in the fight. This tale is about relationships, hidden truths discovered, family, and the longing for home.</p><p>Acknowledgements: Agatha Christie once more, and to elements of The Thin Man series, both in Dashiell Hammett's novel and in the film adaptations of W.S.Van Dyke/Goodrich and Hackett. As always, there are elements from <em>Spooks</em> (aka <em>MI5</em>).</p><p>Written in Spring 2004.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

PROLOGUE

Footsteps and laughter from above echoed down the once hidden stairs and filled the study. By now Giles could identify the light tread and occasional shriek from Dawn, the thuds that meant Andrew. Tonight, however, he could hear one more set of steps; Xander must have arrived to collect Andrew for their business trip. The young Council representatives would be making their first official visit to Leticia Maxwell, the retired Watcher pressed back into service to watch over the new Slayer in Birmingham.

Giles wished they'd bloody well be quiet – his poor Anya had retreated to bed to nurse the cold she'd somehow picked up in Devon, and he didn't want her disturbed. But unless they got too loud to ignore, he'd let them enjoy themselves, while he turned his attention to work.

He placed a slim volume on the book rest in front of him. Although Cousin Martin had never cared much for his home, he had cared for his treasures, and this book, which had rested next to the broken Cup, had been as great a find as the "cursed gold" of the magick vessel. Its leaves were brittle now, the inked words blurring with age, but the signs were still there.

This was the journal of Watcher Henry Giles, who, according to what few records were left, had served from 1659 until his mysterious death in 1666; the volume which Martin had stolen from the Council archives was the account for 1665.

Giles had spent the two days since his honeymoon studying the text. Henry and his Slayer Judith had a quiet year, until the plague had begun to eat its way through the London population. Taking the best advice at the time, he and Judith had escaped west to Devon and the haven of Tor House, where they had been quartered at a nearby farm cottage – Henry was the first of the family to stay at Swallow's Nest, it seemed. Yet as the season had turned, Judith had begun to dream: as Henry had put it, _Our sojourn in Devon shewed the dangers attendant on a Slayer's absence from the city; Judith's dreams, and those of the coven's seer Margery, told of a great danger coming, of travellers and darkness and cold that would cause more darkness than the evil which had sent us fleeing._

A tattered blue ribbon marked the most important passage in the volume, the one Giles had been struggling to relate to his current knowledge. Opening the volume, he adjusted his glasses and began to reread.

_25 October 1665_

_Today Judith and I returned to London. We were almost too late to prevent disaster, but God stayed His hand one last time, and a great gift fell into our possession._

_But I must fix the events in good order, lest I forget some detail of import. Upon my earnest entreaties – for even a Slayer is susceptible to the forces of illness – we took a boat at Richmond, so that we might enter London by water. The gates of the city are open once more, now that there are so few of the sick left to keep within, but I felt the air of the Thames would be more healthful for me and my charge. This was an error, I soon realised, as we passed the floating corpses of several plague-ridden souls who'd taken refuge in the river, and Judith was most grieved. It is an oddity of nature that she is so womanish in some things, while a mighty warrior in others. I comforted her as best I could with false words._

Giles looked at the passage again, hearing Buffy's voice in his memory: 'Is it ever going to be easy?....Lie to me.' He had done, of course. More than once.

In a habit he'd almost abandoned, he pulled out his handkerchief and polished his glasses before returning to the text.

_We landed at the stairs near the Temple; once a busy point, now full of ghosts. Judith continued distressed, but her mood had grown strange. Her sword, which she was to keep hidden in her cloak according to my instructions, was to be seen too often catching rays of the moon; she would stop and stare at the beams, then send them spinning back to heaven. We passed two crazed sufferers raving in the streets; they too raised their hands to the moon, crying out to the Lord to cleanse them of pain. Faded red crosses marked almost every door in one of the lanes – death had come to the inhabitants much earlier, but the signs, and the stench, yet remained._

_Two vampires just past St, Mary-le-Strand; they lean and hungry, for their victims had all died, and Judith staked them with little ceremony. We had not far to go now. Hurrying our steps, we made our way toward St.Giles-in-the-Fields, until Judith insisted that we take a passageway she had seen in her dreams in Devon . It would hold our answers, she said, in a tone that seemed far from sense yet too strong to be denied. Though I misdoubted the wisdom of our action, we went in, I clutching a magick gifted to me by the coven after some discussion of the prophetic dreams._

_The passage, which I never had seen until this night, ran between two houses; yet with stone walls, and a gate that cried out when we opened it. Judith led into the narrow way, the very stones seeming to breathe cold and evil. She held her sword aloft, catching what little moonlight she could; it was our light and our guide._

_After we had passed I know not how far, we came to a small, enclosed circle – too dead for growing things, too hard for humans. Judith spoke little, instructing me to wait and then crouching down in the dark in a hunting posture. It was as if she had transformed into the primal force my fellow Council members only whisper of. Then, without warning, she lifted her sword to the sky and said it was coming._

_Here my memory becomes cloudy. I know – if I can know anything– that the firmament ripped open with a scream, with a smell of bitter almonds and hell, with a cold, cold wind. From some demon world fell two figures, made like man and woman. They hissed when they touched the earth, and a golden cup rattled against the stone._

Giles set the book aside for a moment, so that he could check the notes on his legal pad. His own vision in Devon had shown him the sky ripping apart when the two halves of the Cup came together, but he couldn't forget words written in blood against the torn sky: 'Bring them together, then tear them apart.' He stared at the words until they too blurred, black ink on the yellow paper like black ink swirling on a mirror, before going back to the journal.

_The woman, a small, bent thing, stood, and peered into the passageway. I set down her words just as she spake them, for the accuracy of my report may help others. "Are you here to open the gate for the Lady of the Xet?" she asked, in the voice of one who had swallowed stones, harsh and cold. The frost touched my bones. "This is not usual practice in the worlds we visit or the worlds we take. When we came before, your people were not so mannerly."_

_The man's tongue darted like a serpent's. In the glow from Judith's sword it appeared to be forked, a demon indeed, and his speech offered a clew to his demon-kind's purpose. "Or perhaps you wish your spirit to be eaten first? Show yourself for judgment."_

_Judith bravely stepped into the circle, sword at the ready, and instructed them to leave the earth or be slain._

_The travellers of the Xet went where they pleased and left when they pleased, with what they pleased, the man told us, again with a hiss. He stepped forth, his foot touching the vessel, and he raised his hands to the sky, saying he could feel the strength we should give us–_

_But my eyes went to the woman, nay, female demon, who like a rare sempstress began to sew patterns in the darkness. With her motion a thread, silk but stronger, tightened around my neck, in a dark magick I'd never known. There was no time to ponder my choices – I rolled out of the passageway and caught at the vessel. The man-demon falling toward, I received a wounding kick in my gut, but the gold fit neatly into my hand. Then he bent down, his claws engaging around my wrist. I was tied, throat and arm, and I could feel myself being snapped in two._

_Judith leapt. With one slice of the blade she cut through the magick thread, and I could breathe again. She called out to me to do the spell and then do as she had foreseen. When I spoke the words, the demons faltered. The claws still fast in my arm, however, I was hard-put to scatter the magick over the gold. But I so did, and then I threw the cup into the air._

_The female demon screamed and reached out, but Judith was before her. With a second slice of the blade, the cup was rent in twain – through magick or prophecy, we know not– and as gold broke, the tear in the heavens healed._

_The demons caught at each other, crying one to the other, We must go home, we must go home. But whatever magick they had could not open the sky again. When the male demon offered to charge Judith, the female prevented him, saying, "Not now. We shall remember, my Pennith. And when time comes we shall let all those who wish go home." Then in a flash they were not there, leaving only Judith and me to look at each other and marvel–_

Another thud from above rattled the pictures on the study wall, and Giles could hear coughing start up in the master bedroom. Shutting the journal and replacing it in the protective sleeve, he muttered, "Damn it, now they've done it."

After hurrying down the hall, he stuck his head into their bedroom to check on Anya. The lamps were off and she hadn't even lit the candles, but there was enough light from the hall that he could see her huddled under the duvet, shivering in the middle of their bed. "Sorry about the noise. Do you need anything?" he said quietly.

Her voice was thick, lacking its usual brightness. "I need not to feel like a demon is stuffing things in my nasal cavities and pounding on my every joint. But since I don't actually expect you to work a miracle of healing, could you make me some of my tea?"

"Of course – with extra lemon and honey, I think? Let me turn on the lamp for you first–"

"No. My eyes hurt, I want it dark." She trailed off into a series of coughs. The poor darling sounded absolutely miserable.

Above them came another irregular sequence of thuds. "Right, I'll just tell that lot to shut up, then I'll get your tea. Just try to stay comfortable, dearest."

"Ha," she said in a small, pathetic voice, and then blew her nose.

When he went up the stairs toward the junior Watchers' quarters, he could hear their television going – dogs barking, odd – and Andrew's muffled "No, but should I pack stakes? How many? In my tote bag or in my suitcase?"

Giles knocked perfunctorily before opening their door. "Would you all please be quiet? Anya's feeling horrible, she doesn't need the bother."

"Sorry, Giles." Dawn, curled on the sofa besides Xander, looked up, while Andrew addressed himself to his packing. "You guys need any help or anything?"

"She all right?" Xander added, hand going nervously to his eyepatch. Giles didn't know what the boy was uneasy about – of course they'd hardly spoken beyond civil nothings and Cup of Xet business since Devon. When he and Anya got back, Willow had said something about not intruding and growing up and Council business, or.... it hadn't been clear, really, but the two Scoobies had moved into a short-term rental flat near Marble Arch as a 'Watcher retreat' or some such bloody thing, before Willow had headed off to the coven.

But he had other priorities at the moment. "Just a cold. But she needs to rest, and I'd like a little consideration for her." When Dawn nodded, then wiped her nose with a tissue, he said, "Dear Lord, are you coming down with it too?"

"Nuh-uh. We're just watching a very sad documentary –you know, about abused dogs, and the Battersea Dogs' Home and adoption?" she said. Then, brightening: "Giles, do you think–"

"No! Absolutely not. And, Andrew, may I ask why you have my ceremonial dagger of Burroth in your luggage?"

The boy looked sheepish. "Well, I didn't want to touch it, but there were rumours that the Burroth demon-clan were congregating outside Stourbridge, and we Watchers might have to check it out–"

"But you didn't ask, and that piece hasn't been properly consecrated anyway. Leave it, please." Giles made himself smile. "I'm going to brew Anya some tea, so I'll say goodbye now. Short, safe trip to you both – Andrew, if you'd check in every now and again, it'd be helpful."

"Of course, Giles. I wouldn't dream of shirking my Investigations and Acquisitions responsibilities, especially with the Yeangelt menace drawing ever closer," Andrew said.

"Er, yes, that's fine. And Dawn, don't stay up too late." After one more smile all around, he headed down the stairs.

He was almost to the ground floor before he heard footsteps and Xander's voice. "Hey, Giles, wait up."

"Xander." A bit curt, perhaps, but he didn't know what else to say, or what not to say.

"Yeah. 's just me." Once to the entryway, Xander stopped. Looking away, he put his hand on the bannister, his hand smoothing along the wood. "Andrew's about finished packing, we've got to catch the Tube and then make the last train. Thought I'd come down ahead of him."

'Of course. Do you, er, need me to drive you to Euston Station? After I make Anya's tea, of course."

"Oh. No thanks, we'll do the Tube thing." He smacked the bannister, which resounded with a solid thunk. "This is nice, by the way – the oak? Your house is well-built. Good bones, you know, even if you have some weird doors to nowhere, and the attic could still use some work. I didn't get to finish the repairs, what with discovering magick artifacts and things of the spooky."

"I appreciate that, and what you did do. You know your job, Xander. Your many jobs."

"So do you." Sticking his hands in his pockets, he smiled. "It's a real home, Giles. You and Anya – you've made it nice, I liked staying here. I, um, I just wanted to say that."

Biting back a caustic comment about two missing bottles of premier cru, Giles said, "You're welcome to stay with us any time, you or any of the Scoobies."

"And wouldn't you be horrified if we took you up on it." The Xander-grin spread, but then disappeared as if it had never been. "We'd have to find Buffy first, anyway. Get her home too."

 _When time comes we shall let all who wish go home...._ Shaking off his memory of Henry Giles's report, he said, "That would be nice." But don't hold your breath, he added silently. "You're invited, nevertheless. And I expect we'll see you when you return from your trip."

"Well, cool. Great." Shoving his hands even further in his pockets, Xander rocked back on his heels. "Yeah, so I wonder what's taking Andrew."

"It could be anything. It's Andrew," Giles said dryly.

At which point more thunder could be heard coming down the stairs, accompanied by the crash of a suitcase against the steps. When Andrew came into view and saw them glaring up at him, he softened his steps to an exaggerated hush. "I'm sorry," he said in a loud whisper. "But I'm ready to go!"

"May God have mercy upon me," Xander muttered.

Andrew jumped the last step and clutched at Giles for balance. "Sorry, sorry. Um, Giles, can I ask a favour?"

"I suppose," he said, already reaching for his wallet.

"No, not that. I have a Council credit card! Or Xander does. Anyway –" He took a deep breath. "If, I mean, when Nalph contacts you about the Nri-encrusted vessel and the plots against the state and everything, well, um....be careful. And then call me and let me know that Dawn and I didn't totally screw up everything? Please?"

Andrew, evincing a modicum of responsibility – Giles had to smile. "I certainly will. Your wounds of honour are looking better, by the way. They'll impress Leticia, mark my words."

While Andrew blushed, Xander shot Giles a sceptical look. "Right, whatever. We gotta go, young Padawan – see you, Giles, and tell Anya to feel better."

After seeing the two out the front door, rescuing the entryway table from a wild swing from Andrew's suitcase in the process, Giles locked up, set the house wards, and then went into the kitchen. As he put the kettle on and got the tea things out, his wedding ring kept flashing in the lamplight, reflected gold on the ceiling. Made him think of spinning watches and broken golden cups, even as he measured out the leaves and watched the water twisting into tea.

Anya was hidden under the duvet when he carried the two mugs into their bedroom. He didn't hear any coughing or undue wheezing, though. Perhaps she'd managed to fall asleep. He hated to disturb her, but he wanted to make sure she didn't need anything; he could stay for just a moment before returning to another hour or so of work. The hallway light was enough to see by.

After stowing her mug on his bedside table, he pulled one of the armchairs close, then put his socked feet up on the bed. The tea –some lemon zest herbal whatsit she favoured – went down easily, hot and honey-sweet, and he leaned back and closed his eyes. Spinning watches, rips in the sky, blue demon claws coming at his face –

"Okay, do you not want to sleep with me any more because I'm ill?" This accusation was punctuated by a loud, hacking cough.

"What?" When he opened his eyes, Anya, hair wild from the covers and nose painfully red, was sitting up and staring at him. "Darling, I thought you were resting."

She dragged her hand through her mop of hair. "That was my point. You thought I was asleep, but there you are in a chair like you don't want to touch horrible sick me, although I think you've probably been already exposed to any contagion –"

"I'm sure I have been. Just thinking you wouldn't want me to disturb you, that's all. And, er, I brought your tea." Carefully he gave her the mug, then in the dimness watched her take a drink and make a face. "What's wrong?"

"It doesn't taste right. How much did you use?"

"Four teaspoons for the pot. Brewed four minutes. Three dashes of lemon per mug, two dollops of honey."

"Well, those are the correct measurements. But it still doesn't taste right." She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. "Not only do I feel awful, now my tastebuds don't function properly."

"Symptom of the cold, darling. Do you want me to leave you to rest? Or get you something from downstairs, perhaps--?"

"For God's sake, Rupert, I want you to stop asking me soothing questions! And I want you to get in bed with me!" She tossed the tissue into a wastebasket on her side and then coughed fretfully.

Suppressing a sigh, he said, "All right. Shall I light the candles, or will that hurt your eyes, and just pretend I didn't frame that as a question."

"Candles would be nice, thank you." While he performed their ritual, he watched out of the corner of his eye as she wriggled over to her side, put up her mug, and threw back the covers for him. He realised she was wearing his Oxford sweatshirt and a pair of his socks, which signs alone would have told him how terrible she felt.

The flames were small, still points of blue-white, but they illuminated the bed clearly. He crawled in and was immediately blanketed by her, with accompanying fistful of tissues. She said, "I'm sorry, honey, but I think I might be a bad patient. I'm not very good at being sick."

"I think that's a fair statement," he said, awkwardly pulling the duvet up around them.

A small wheeze, which he rather thought might have been feigned."Okay, when I'm not dying of the plague, I'm going to punch you for that remark. A good husband would say I'm perfectly justified in behaving like this."

"You know you're supposed to give me the bloody script beforehand. Anya, my dearest, you're perfectly justified in behaving like this." He dropped a kiss on her forehead; felt like she had a little fever, he'd get her some aspirin in a minute. But because he couldn't help himself: "Still, you're _not_ dying of the plague, and as I've been reading Henry Giles's journal about the reality in 1665, I wish you wouldn't use that expression."

"Rupert, are you daring to mention work on my sickbed? And after the candles are lit?"

"Oh, so it's 'your sickbed' now, is it? Very proprietary. Shall I leave?"

Vengeance was reflected in her slightly swollen eyes. "Honey, you're sleeping with me even if I keep you awake by coughing all night, which I damn well hope I do. And right now I want you to read to me, because I can't focus or breathe right and I feel bad and you're pissing me off."

In sickness and in health, he told himself, in sickness and in health...although they hadn't actually used that phrase in their marriage vows. "Fine. What would you like me to read to you?"

" _Postern of Fate_. It's on my table." She snuggled closer.

"One of the Tommy and Tuppence books? You've read it already, haven't you?" When she slid one hand up into his hair, he added, "But it's a delightful choice. Hang on." With a painful stretch he managed to grab it and pull it in. After a grumbling rearrangement of their positions, he opened the paperback. The print was only just visible in the candlelight. "Where should I start?"

"From the very beginning. The epigraph."

"No one starts at the epigraph, Anya –"

"It not only sets the tone but also gives possible clues to the narrative, which I think Mr Research should know. Start at the epigraph, Rupert." Then she nuzzled against him so sweetly that he almost forgot he was annoyed.

"Right. Fine, darling. The epigraph, by Flecker." Managing somehow to adjust his glasses without disturbing her, he read:"'Four great gates has the city of Damascus... Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear...'" His voice slowed as he began to take in the words. Henry Giles had mentioned gates; Yeangelt had said something...."'Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard That silence where the birds are dead, yet something pipeth like a bird?'"

Gates that cried out. The terminal, and rips in the sky. Land's death, a space too dead for growing things, that silence where the birds are dead....

"Honey, what's wrong?" Anya had raised herself up to stare at him.

"Just wait." After bracing her, he leaned over to blow out the candles. In the dimness and the traces of smoke left behind, he said, "Anya, I think I know what Yeangelt and Pennith want to do. And we're not going to be able to stop them alone."


	2. Chapter 2

Frowning, Nalph hopped out into the Emporium's passageway from the Charing Cross Road to nowhere. The passage's steel gate was rattling far louder than the interior door hung with Ihioo babies' skulls, loud enough to be heard inside the office and beyond, even though no wind blew through the metal. It couldn't be the cold, not yet, he thought, but he would check again.

He lifted up the cage holding his new Azi demon, Haloo, so that the tiny creature could scent the outside air. Although the brick and ancient stone of the passage kept out the worst of the weather, the Azi should be able to tell the pressure-change even before it happened.

With its first whistling breath Haloo fluttered its striated sandpaper wings against its brass cage, then cocked its head and sharpened its fangs idly against a wing. Not cooperative this evening, apparently.

"Try, Haloo," Nalph said in his best coaxing-the-seer-pet voice. "Read the signs for me."

Whistling mournfully, a sound that sank into brick and stone, Haloo pointed a wing at the boium tree in the circular courtyard. More brown dead leaves fell, hissing when they landed.

"Thank you, I already knew that," Nalph said testily. Despite – or perhaps because of– his application of the Noothian canusses, sprinkling the bonemeal morning and night into the earth of the pot, the tree had continued to wither. The Lady Yeangelt and her minions had scarcely gathered enough leaves to complete their gathering, but for all intents and purposes it was complete.

He dug a claw into a dreadlock at the thought. The sorceress-bitch had been more demanding in the last days, too happy, and he hadn't been able yet to confirm the latest information for... those who were concerned. He didn't permit himself to even think of the words 'Watcher' or 'Investigations and Acquisitions.'

"The dark times are coming," he said, almost to himself. "And so I will remind them tonight."

In the cage Haloo went into a frenzy of whistles and colour-changes, its striae flashing from blue to grey to dark, dark red.

The unlocked steel gate rattled, far, far louder than a door hung with skulls.

***

The end of a late October sunset in London was like curtains falling across windows of the sky. Crimsoned pink draped the west, while cold, unlit grey veiled the east and the north....no, that was utter shit, and Spike knew it. He knew better than to try poetry again. Couldn't suss out what about the Smoke called it out in him.

Or rather, he could, and bloody wished he couldn't. "What did that git Thomas Wolfe say? You can't go home again," he said under his breath, before slouching down in the back seat of the black cab and planting his boots hard against the barrier between driver and passenger.

The cabbie sent a quick, anxious look over his shoulder. "Almost there, mate."

"Right. Yeah." Ignoring the ashy taste in his mouth, he turned to look out the window he'd rolled down.

Streetlight, neon, doors and windows darkening as shops closed for the night, people milling about on the pavements, smells of spicy Indian food and beer like hooks in his skin to hold him in place, more people, pink turning into grey, blood and bone and home – he stopped himself. It was just Upper Street, heart of Islington. Nothing else. Not his home, hadn't been home in years.

The cabdriver turned up his radio -- sports results, brilliant. However, when the announcer began with "Arsenal wins again," Spike had to sigh. Highbury was a sodding Hellmouth, no question. Like home....

He put aside thoughts of lost Sunnydale and looked back out the window.

When the cab slid around a corner, the noise and light-levels outside dropped. Seemed a nice enough neighbourhood: terrace-houses on one side of the street, larger free-standing ones on the other, grasses and colour in the tidy front gardens. It'd suit the old man and ex-demon-girl.

The cab stopped in front of a big white house with vines curling over its front wall. After shoving a couple of tenners at the driver, Spike got himself and his baggage out on the pavement. Rolling his shoulders, he released tension from the long plane ride, from losses and memory. Then, with a flourish of his duster, he opened the gate and went up the walk.

The doorway – pots of tidy greenery on either side, globe light above the Oxford-blue door – looked welcoming enough. Even before he could press the bell, in fact, the door opened, and the master of the house stood on the threshold, his glasses sliding down his nose, a cup of tea in his hand. Was that almost a smile on his face? "Hello, Spike. You're a bit early." He looked over Spike's shoulder. "Er, where are your colleagues?"

"Rupes. I came on by myself, thought I'd get settled first. Wes and Faith are dropping their bags at the Wyndam-Pryce establishment – I think Wes is putting the boot into his mum, yeah, bringing Faith and her together like that." He wasn't going to say anything, wasn't going to – "So, right, you planning to invite me in, or conspiring to kill me again?"

"The two are not necessarily mutually exclusive." And that was a bloody grin. "However, so long as you promise not to kill anyone, particularly my wife, my charges, or my dogs, you're safe and welcome. I invite you in." He extended his hand.

"Fucking hell, old man, you ever going to let that go? But –" he shook Giles's hand – "I do so promise." Using his gentleman's manners made him uneasy as always, unprotected, like a layer of skin sloughing off whether he wanted it gone or not; Wes did the same thing to him all the sodding time. Anyway – "Dogs?"

At which point the gate crashed open behind him, and mad barking erupted. When he turned, a Jack Russell terrier was streaking toward him, its leash trailing behind.

"Cava! Come here," Giles said sharply. The dog jumped up in passing to lick Spike's fingers and then plopped itself, panting, on Giles's shoes. Then: "Hello, darling, look who's arrived."

Anya, glowing and all togged out in exercise gear, was coming up the walk. "I see! Spike, you're early – and, obviously, resurrected!" She slapped him on the back in a familiar demon-girl touch. "We're very happy you're going to stay with us. I'd hug you in greeting as well, but I'm sweaty from my run."

"'lo, Anya," he said, unable to repress a grin. "Appreciate the invitation and the thought."

"Glad you could visit." Smiling, she hit him again. "We also appreciate your vamp-Watcher-hero type help in our time of great crisis. So, honey–"

It took Spike a second to work out that was for Giles. Apparently her worry about sweat didn't extend to a husband of four weeks, because she stretched up for a kiss, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing herself into him. Smoothly he steadied her with one hand, making sure she didn't step on the dog, and balanced his tea with the other. Then she said as if she'd never paused "–Is anyone else here yet?"

"Tom and Zoe. Danny's on some op with Customs and Excise, can't make it." Giles caressed her back before easing her down. "What have you done with Dawn and Macallan?"

"Ian Matthews, at the park," she said. When Giles groaned, she added, "Well, honey, she _is_ a teenaged girl, and although he's kind of wild, at least he's nice enough to walk his father's dog."

"Too much pub time," he said darkly.

She rubbed her thumb over his mouth. "A Watcher can take care of herself. Now I'm going to go take a quick shower, while you show Spike his room and get him a beverage. Spike, we have pigs' blood or beer for you....Hey! Rupert, you haven't changed from work. And you're wearing shoes." Which Spike thought was a bloody literal observation, even for her.

Giles said, "Er, darling, before I left the office, I got a message."

"Oh. We'll be going out after the meeting, huh?" Spike thought he heard a note of panic under her usual matter-of-fact tone. "Okay, we can talk after my shower." One more pat on the back for Spike, then she whistled the dog to follow her as she went upstairs.

"Well, aren't you two cosy," Spike said, trying for casual sarcasm and almost succeeding. Something about their shorthand affection made him feel even more alone than usual–

But from out of sight came the sound of feet pounding down the stairs. Giles muttered, "Dear God, brace yourself," and flattened himself against the door.

"What–"

Andrew hove into view, heading toward him at a dead run. "Spike! Oh Spike, you're really rematerialised and you're here, and – Spike!"

At the same time, from the street came a Summers-girl shriek the likes of which Spike hadn't heard in months, accompanied by deep-throated barking. "Spike! Spike Spike Spike!"

He found himself crushed in simultaneous tackle-hugs from the junior Watchers, with additional help from a second dog, which judging from the long and over-friendly nose seemed to be some kind of collie. Somewhere outside the tangle of arms and burrowing heads, Giles said, "Macallan! Come," and the dog-nose and paws were removed. But Andrew and Dawn held on tight.

The force of their hugs took Spike over the threshold and into the house.

***

"So, your mom hates my guts," Faith said for the fifth time since they'd left Kensington. She'd been nibbling at her lips until they were swollen and red, bright red even in London nighttime –

Not that Wes was paying attention to things of that nature. For the fifth time he replied, "No, but she likes almost no one. For example, you might have noticed she doesn't care much for me." He gestured her in through the gate of the Islington house.

Faith spun onto the walk, her movement as smooth as if, cudgel in hand, she was knocking out a phalanx of vampires. It was characteristic of her, he thought, that every movement looked like dancing. Looked like death.

"She likes you fine, 'son,'" she said, trying to mimic Elinor Wyndam-Pryce's tone. "She's just kinda fucking chilly. In the movies, that's Mom-style in England, you know?"

"Not normally, I believe," he said.

"Huh. Well, coulda been worse, pal."

"Oh, it was. You never met my father."

When Faith came to rest beside him, he rang the doorbell. The action made him recall the first time he'd stood on this threshold, feel again the rain, the memory-loss and confusion, the weight of the loaded gun in his pocket, the headache. Things had changed, if not as much as he'd hoped. The headache lingered, if only a shadow of what it had been. And so did Lilah.

She still whispered in his head, a trickle of hell-smoke in his ears at odd times of the day or night, always asking for release. 'I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd save me,' she said every time – as she whispered to him even now on Giles and Anya's doorstep. Like a fool, he kept searching for the way to do what she asked.

It was only one of the many reasons he'd had to leave Angel's team.

The opening of the door pulled him out of the depression that always hovered – and Anya, haloed by candle flame and lamplight, beamed at them from the other side. "Welcome, Faith and Wes! Come in. We've been waiting for you."

"Hey, Anya, thanks," Faith said, grinning. "Not something me and Watcher-boy hear every day." After the two women exchanged shoulder-pats, Faith disappeared inside, saying, "Yo, it's the married man! What's up, G?"

And Anya pounced. Giving him a rib-crushing hug, she said, "Wesley! Thank you for the Fortnum hamper and the loan of your land on our wedding day; both proved highly enjoyable. Now, tell me – since you've changed jobs and time zones, are you still crazy?"

He found himself chuckling. "If I were, Mrs Giles, would I tell you?" When she pulled back with a frown, he added, "No, joking. I'm fine, really."

"Uh-huh. All senior Watchers use that phrase as a form of strategy. I'll be keeping my eye on you," she said, drawing him in. "Now say hello to Rupert before we have to begin work."

As they entered, he was struck again with the essence of their place: warmth, good smells of food and plants, colours like jewellery. Just like last time, candles flickered on the entryway table – but instead of two pillars, there was now a wrought-iron tree of tapers, at least ten at first glance.

Faith was already halfway up the staircase, saying, "Just a Coke or something for me, man. Thanks."

"All right– Wes, hello, thanks for coming," Giles said, smiling and offering his hand.

As they shook hands, Wes couldn't resist saying, "Hello, Giles. This is certainly a nicer welcome than an elbow to the chin."

"Because this time your gun is holstered, not waved in our faces," Anya said briskly. "I did notice it when I hugged you, Wes."

"Ah, so your warm greeting was just a gun-check."

"Don't be stupid. It was a warm greeting _and_ a gun-check." Letting him go, she said to Giles, "I'm going to go make sure everybody's settled, honey. Could you bring up the food?"

"Certainly – Wes can help me. You might send Dawn or Andrew down to wait for our last group member, though."

"Got it." She left, saying over her shoulder, "Please bring Faith's drink too, Wes."

Giles steered him toward the table. "Drinks and glasses are there – choose something for yourself as well. I've just got to get one more thing before we go up to the study." Then he opened the refrigerator and stared inside, muttering something to himself about cheese.

As Wes poured the drink for Faith, he said, "Actually, should the team leader be left to finish putting together the canapes?"

"Bugger off." But Giles smiled when he said it. "In any event, I'm not running the op, Tom Quinn is. Anya and I and our assistants have all done the preliminary, er, investigations and acquisitions, but by rights the final push should have been down to Special Branch. Shouldn't have to call in the Watchers and a Slayer at all, but with Harry Fucking Pearce's nose so far up Downing Street's arse and his refusal to even consider – well, it's the government, you know. Budget woes take priority over minor apocalypse."

"Giles, I have no idea what you're talking about." Choosing a bottle of Bishop's Tipple for himself, he twisted off the cap and took a long drink. His headache retreated, just for a moment, with the rush of bitter down his throat.

Another smile as Giles joined him at the table, carrying a chunk of Wensleydale on a plate. "Missed my report about Her Majesty's Secret Service outsourcing its demon crime enforcement, did you?"

"No, of course not. However, your colourful espionage references aren't really in my line, despite my father's extra-curricular activities." He didn't know why that statement earned such a quizzical look. "In any event, as you say it's a minor apocalypse. This is very much Watchers' business, Giles, always has been."

"Er, right. Watchers' business." Suddenly the tray seemed to hold all of Giles's attention. He added the cheese, set aside the plate, wiped his hands."You ready?"

Wes could see in Giles's actions and hear in the curt words a familiar bruising at the mention of the Council – familiar since he'd spent almost five years aching every time someone said the word. That recognition meant he'd go ahead with the other task he'd been given: "In a moment. I've been charged with a message for you. From Robson."

"Oh? About the juniors, I suppose." Giles glanced at his watch before picking up the tray. "Could it wait? We really should get started –"

"They want you back in the New Council."

Slowly, carefully, Giles put the food back down. "What are you talking about?"

"Robson, Santiago, Wood, the others. They sent Dawn and Andrew here not only because of her strongly worded request to live with you and Anya, but also because they wanted to test you, see where your loyalties stood after the, well, precipitate departure from Cleveland. See what you'd pass on." When Giles stared at him, Wes said, "Well then. Dawn's entrance scores at the new Academy are the highest in two decades." Higher even than mine, he thought with a twinge of bitterness. "And Andrew and Xander got through the Burroths with flying colours in that trip to Stourbridge –"

"I had sod-all to do with either."

"That's not what Dawn and Andrew say. According to them, you're their 'best teacher ever' – quite aside from you and Anya serving essentially as Dawn's guardians."

Giles's expression had closed down, an unpleasant reflection of Sunnydale days. "Ah. I've been harbouring a pair of double-agents in my house."

"Can't quite stop the espionage references?"

Giles made a sound that might have been intended as laughter. "Of course. It's what I do." He stared at his hands on the tray for a long moment, his fingers moving along the edge as if inscribing unreadable words. "Or it's one of the things my wife and I do. No, I'm not a Watcher any more, full-stop. But you, Wes – you haven't told me why you've returned to the fold, or why you left Angel's team. I've been waiting for you to explain, but–?" A hazel stare all but pinned Wes against the wall. Yes, that was familiar too.

It took a look away and another drink of bitter before he could get the words past the knot in his throat: "More disapproval, Giles? So much for 'ex-Watchers resurgent.'"

"No, you don't understand. I've been concerned." He paused, selecting his words. "I'm asking you if Angel was, er, difficult when you told him you knew of his lie, or if some misplaced loyalty to Roger Wyndam-Pryce has made you return to the Council. Is this job really what you want?"

Had Angel been 'difficult'....he didn't think that was the right term. Standing in the filtered light from the windows in the Wolfram and Hart CEO's office, staring at the vampire he'd so long fought beside and for, he had found himself remembering the betrayal in scarifying detail. Not Angel's betrayal with the memories, of course, but his own: mistranslation, misguided action, loss, utter loss. He hadn't needed Angel's quiet "I did what I had to for my son, he's the most important thing," because he knew it already, if distantly. The deep emotional reality of a father's love had always been something Wes saw through smoked glass, watching the expression of it in others but never feeling for himself.

"No," he said now. "I didn't rejoin the Council because of my father. And Angel wasn't any way I hadn't expected him to be."

"Expected, once you got back the memory he stole. Hard to forgive," Giles said. But he added, "All right. You'll tell me more when you feel able, I hope. Now we really should get to work."

"Certainly. Oh, wait, the ice in Faith's drink is melting – let me just set that right."

Even as Wes tried to regain his composure by digging in the ice bucket, he heard thunder rolling down the stairs. Already holding the food tray in his hands, Giles shook his head, then shouted, "Macallan! Cava! _Slow_!" The thunder softened, so Wes could identify the sounds of speeding canine paws even before a collie and terrier careened around the corner of the arch. Tongues lolling out, they sat and smiled at the foolish humans.

Wes let himself smile too. "Now what's this? When we last spoke of this– three weeks ago? – you weren't going to get a dog. You told me that you didn't have the time or the space, that no matter what pleas Dawn tried or arguments Anya used...."

"Yes, well, the rumours of my influence in this household are greatly exaggerated. We went to Battersea the next bloody day. And we got _two_ of the creatures because Dawn feared one would be lonely during the long hours we're at work and she's at school." Yet when Giles leaned down to the dogs, his murmured "stupid beasts, can't find your own arses with your noses" was all affection.

"See, Giles, you love them! Especially when Anya told you why she'd picked Macallan for her very own." Wes looked up to see a tall, lovely young woman grinning from the archway – Dawn. "Hey, Wesley."

They'd never actually met, he knew, even if he remembered her from Sunnydale, hanging about during Scooby meetings and pestering Buffy. But they'd exchanged e-mails in the past weeks, and he could work with what he was given: "Hello, Dawn, lovely to see you. So why did Anya choose this particular animal?"

"It's not important, really," Giles began.

Impervious to the hint, she giggled and put her hand on the collie's head. "Because she took one look and said–" her voice took on an eerie similarity to Mrs Giles's-- "'This is the one for me. He's obviously very smart and handsome and tough, if slightly neurotic and given to herding people. Just like Rupert!'"

Over Wes's laugh, Giles said, "Yes, yes, that joke never gets tired. Dawn, if you'll wait for our last guest and then join us– you should revise for your Watcher History exam in the interim, perhaps?"

"Only you would make me study right before an apocalypse," she said, stealing a slice of cheese and then flourishing the book in her hand."Already got it covered, Giles."

"Well done. You know, Wes, this young woman's going to be the head of the Council some day. I'd mind my manners with her," he said, as he headed up the stairs with the food.

Wes caught Dawn's pleasure at the compliment, a burst of pure energy, before she sent him an inquiring look. "He said 'no' when I asked," he said quietly.

"Yeah, well, he's still a Watcher – like you were?" she said. "Just make him see reality. Don't accept the first answer, you know?"

Nodding, he took the first step up. When his foot touched the stair, once more the smoke-voice whispered in his ear. ' I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd save me.'

***

The sounds of merriment and business, growls and chatter and the clink of demon coin, came from the other side of the curtain. The public space of the Mysterious Emporium was full, it seemed; the Lady Yeangelt could almost taste the spirits of Nalph's patrons, those demons who didn't know what she knew.

Her sleeping partners would be awakening soon. The power of the Xet was coming back into clawed hands and her voice, emanating from what she'd prepared for the night. The two translucent lengths of silk, each made of panels she'd sewn into wholes and marked with the same repeating pattern, draped over her arm until they almost brushed the floor of the Mysterious Emporium's private space. Soon but not now; almost, but not touching yet.

Smiling to herself, she lowered them the final inch. Silk hissed against ground. Then she dragged the edges in a circle around her, acid to mark the earth. When she lifted the fabric up, flame leapt around the circle. It smelled like bitter almond.

In the centre of the circle, she whirled. What lay beyond the flames was blurred, but she could discern Master Hat resting on a chair between the two tunnels, his hood and cloak rippling in the fire-wind. Although he was eager to begin the opening, she knew to wait until time served. Still: "Master Hat, might you pass me a glass to drink?"

"Of course, my lady," he said, before disappearing into her tunnel – the one holding the souls and spirits they'd taken, but more important, the way to the hidden room. Her Pennith and Griffin would be back with her tonight.

Another spin, a burst of chatter, and she saw Nalph standing by the curtain of babies' skulls. Even as she twirled, her arms going out so that the silk could flutter above the flames, she said, "Mikh Lord, not much longer to wait. The day of the Rising Time approaches."

"Not 'night'?" the creature said coolly. She'd noticed earlier the merchant's lack of enthusiasm for their great task, and she would attend to it.

Yet for the moment she would dance – "Night is day in my world, Nalph, as it is in others. All will be able to pass through, once we open the Terminal." The flames reached higher still in her pleasure at the thought. She and her Pennith would be travellers once more, able to go home. Soon but not now; almost, but not yet.

The humans would be dead, and all remaining unbelievers would be dealt with before the Xet set their feet to walking the dimensions again.

"Here is your drink, my lady," Master Hat said from the other side. Bowing low, he offered her the seemingly empty glass jar – but it was already heating from the inside, drawn by her fire, the taken spirit effervescing in pain.

"Throw it to me, Master Hat," she said, spinning faster.

When he did so, sending it through the circle of fire, the glass flared intensely green. With one hand she caught the jar, lifted it to her mouth, and drank the spirit down.

***

Andrew had sat in on most of the group councils in the last days of Sunnydale, so he had pre-apocalypse experience. Still, his nerves were worse now, black oil-worms burning into him from above. Like what happened to Mulder in the _X-Files_ ep "Tunguska."

Nerves hurt more now because he knew more about what loss meant.

"We should begin," Tom Quinn said, from his command post sitting on Giles's desk. "Andrew, would you pass out the materials?"

"Of course!" He would do anything for the gorgeous yet troubled spymaster. Besides, Tom scared him. That guy was _intense_.

Jumping to his feet, cradling the stack of folders prepared by himself and Dawn that morning before she had left for her maths test, he surveyed the almost fully occupied study. He and Anya had rushed home early from the office, leaving Giles to handle the phones and a few last-minute Investigations matters, so that they could get the food and arrange the proper seating – with charts and everything– in the limited space.

Tom and Zoe, the team leaders for the op, got to perch on the desk which Anya had cleared (Andrew wouldn't touch Giles's papers for anything). The MI5 officers of course already had their folders – they were real spies.

Taking up all available space on the sofa were Faith and Spike, dark and light but identical in the way they sprawled, nursed their drinks, and fidgeted until the leather cushions creaked. The fiercest Slayer and the resurrected Vampire-Watcher-hero weren't really meetings types, Andrew thought, which insight was rewarded by Spike's "Look, we don't need the homework, yeah?"

"What Blond Boy said. Just point us in the right direction tomorrow night and fucking let us go," Faith said.

"I'll give them their folders, Andrew," Wes said, taking the whole team's. He had pulled Giles's desk chair close to the sofa – in a supervisory capacity, Andrew figured. When the two began to mutter, he continued, "It's reasonable to assume that if you two are to work as a team, at least one of you must know what's going on."

Spike and Faith stared at each other for a long, long moment, before Spike said, "Draw for it?"

"Whatever. But Watcher-boy holds the deck."

"I'm a bloody Watcher too, missy," Spike said, even as he reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cards.

"Oh for fuck's sake," Giles said, making Anya laugh. Because she said she couldn't fit another chair in the room – or because she preferred this arrangement, as Andrew suspected – Giles had been assigned the bigger of the armchairs by the bookcases, and she had assigned herself his lap. "Andrew, please pass us our folders, if you would."

"Even though we already know what's in them, as we've compiled all the data," Anya added.

While Andrew squeezed around to hand off the rest of the folders, Wes shuffled the cards, hissing them together and then snapping them on his thigh.

"Nice one, Rory," Zoe said. That made Wes smile, even though he didn't look up. If Andrew knew his recent spy history, she'd called him by the code name that the dark and dishevelled Watcher two times over had used in a caper with 'Miss Carter,' aka 'Troy.' Spies had many names, Andrew thought, nodding to himself.

Tom, who had still been amnesiac and missing when that adventure occurred, sent her a sharp look. "Can we stay focussed, please?"

"Sorry, Tom," she said, and turned her attention to her work. But she smiled too.

Andrew put a folder on the empty armchair reserved for the late-comer, then said to Anya, "I'll keep Dawnie's. What do I do with Xander's and Willow's?"

"I'll take Willow's for our meeting in the morning," Giles said, holding his hand out. "Xander's train should be getting in after the meeting, he said he'd come by. You can give it to him then."

"Harris is coming by?" from Spike, and a quiet "Xander's still around?" from Faith. So Xander hadn't talked to Faith yet – which was weird, Andrew thought.

"He's been in Devon with Willow," Anya said. "You guys really _don't_ read your preliminary briefing materials, do you."

"No, but they will," Wes said. He held the deck of cards out to them. "Now draw."

Spike went first. "Ten of spades."

Leaning over Spike, and in the process digging her elbow in what looked to Andrew to be a sensitive area, Faith drew her card. "Sucker! Queen of clubs!"

"Of course it would probably be useful to ask first if high card is winner or loser," Anya said briskly, which observation made Giles hide a smile behind his cup of tea.

Andrew sat down on his corner floor cushion as Spike and Faith began to argue about high and low and Watchers vs Slayers and who could actually read. However, Wes stopped them with a cold "Never mind. Spike, you're the bloody Watcher, you take the fucking thing."

"Language, Percy," Spike said with a grin, even as he accepted the file.

"Yes, fine, that's enough. Folders are all distributed, and we'll begin the meeting now," Tom said in his most-intense-ever way. A person didn't mess with Tom Quinn, Andrew thought, making himself smaller against the bookcases. "The op is scheduled for tomorrow night – we'll have confirmation of that this evening, after Giles and Anya–"

"Tommy and Tuppence," Zoe interjected.

Tom sighed. "– _Giles and Anya_ meet with their informant."

Somehow Andrew had missed that the senior partners of Investigations and Acquisitions had to go out again, but it explained why Anya had got so edgy after her run. With a great effort he kept from touching the claw-marks on his cheek.

"However, we'll proceed as if confirmation already has occurred," Tom finished.

Zoe tapped on her folder. "Our target is to stop the Lady Yeangelt's planned terror activity, which, according to our information, is to open an unknown number of pan-dimensional gates. That opening of what she and her followers call 'the Terminal' would threaten all human life in the Thames Valley, and likely spill out into the rest of England. The result of demons being able to pass freely into our world would threaten the safety of those outside the UK as well."

"Wait just a bloody minute," Spike said. For the first time Andrew realised that the vampire-Watcher-hero had put on his spectacles in order to skim the briefing material, and he had to stuff a canape in his mouth to keep from moaning at the sight. He really needed Dawnie to come back upstairs and pinch him so he didn't embarrass himself. "Lots of demons already pass between dimensions, don't need some sodding multiverse version of Heathrow. Anyanka here could teleport with her vengeance amulet, couldn't you, pet? What's this Yeangelt bird playing at?"

Anya said, "Of course individual demons can go through dimensional doors – if they know the code or location, or have acquired the considerable magicks necessary. But there's often an exorbitant price to pay, sometimes physical, sometimes... not. Also, there aren't as many portals as you'd think, and there are far more dimensions." She grabbed Giles's hand, as if the topic itself was painful, and they intertwined fingers. "Only a very few of the strongest demons could cross outside of the standard ways, and we know now the Xet travellers were some of those."

"Still, dimensions can be shut and power drained. The Slayer Judith Cary and her Watcher did it in 1665, trapping Yeangelt and her consort Pennith in our world," Giles said. "I won't rehearse the history – it's in your briefing packet – but they split the travellers' cup, which somehow contained the power needed for the dimension-breaking."

"Nice. So me and the Watcher boys will set this Yeangelt bitch straight and it'll be done," Faith said. "What's all the fucking drama?"

Tom said coolly, "Because even if you 'set the bitch straight,' there are other factors to consider."

"Another informant – a friend – died to pass along the information the Cup of Xet would ' _open one and three._ ' Three different sites, from which the Terminal would be created. This has since been confirmed by our source on the inside," Giles said. Anya leaned back against him, cradling their linked hands against her stomach in what Andrew could see was comfort. It was their way to ward off the black oil, he thought. "Although it's possible that taking out one site, or Yeangelt herself, would stop the opening, we can't be sure. It might only lessen the impact."

"Further, Slayers are different now than Judith Cary was. Am I right, Giles, in saying that she had a prophetic dream about Yeangelt's arrival?" Wes said. Upon confirmation, he added, "The empowering spell Willow did has had several consequences on the line, one of which being that Slayer-dreams have become even more unreliable. Have you been dreaming lately, Faith?"

"Not about Slayer-shit, pal, but thanks for asking," she snapped. Spike patted her leg, then looked away as if embarrassed by his kindness.

"We know we can't replicate the initial event. However, we do have an edge," Tom said, "since the I and A team has located the broken Cup of Xet and have managed to keep that information from Yeangelt. We'll use that in the op."

Zoe flipped through her folder to a specific page, and Andrew hurried to follow suit. This was the part he'd worked on– he angled the page so the perfection of his copying was clear. She said, "We've also confirmed the three sites of attack. If you'll turn to the first tab, you'll see our targets, two of which are storage facilities for the power Yeangelt wishes to use. The, um, souls and spirits of victims she's already got." Clearing her throat, she continued, "One is in Brixton, the other here in Bloomsbury on the site of the old Council of Watchers headquarters. The third and most important is–"

"The point of the Xet travellers' original entry. Which oddly enough happens to be a passageway right next to Nalph's Mysterious Emporium," Giles said. This time Andrew's hand did go to the claw-marks, as if he could keep the black oil from seeping inside where he was weakest and most frightened.

"The Best for the Most Discerning Demon and Half-demon," Spike murmured. When everybody looked at him, he whipped his glasses off and said, "What? Bloke can't do some shopping in his time?"

"Oh, no. You may be soul-having now, but some of us recall your former less than friendly habits with shopkeepers. What did you steal from Nalph?" Anya said.

"Nothing! Not a sodding – well, yeah, there might have been a thing. An amulet. But it was fifteen years ago, the Mikh-frog won't remember," Spike said.

Giles sighed. "He bloody well will. You violated the Mikh code, you pillock; he feels quite strongly about that sort of thing."

"Which is why Spike will stay here until the, um, op tomorrow night," Wesley said. When Spike started to protest, Wes said in his most Watcherly voice, "Be reasonable. You're still well-known, William – we can't risk your being recognised or even approached by another demon."

"And we do suggest reconnaissance tonight for the Cleveland team," Zoe said.

"However, we should discuss the teams first, and then our strategies for each site. Although Giles, Anya, Zoe, and I have done preliminary op protocols, we're eager to hear objections, questions, or suggestions," Tom said. He flipped a couple of pages in his folder. "Zoe and I, with Andrew and Dawn's help, will monitor everything from the Investigations and Acquisitions office. Giles and Anya will take point at the Mysterious Emporium; they know their way around, they've been preparing their magicks, and they'll be assisted mystically by Willow Rosenberg, the seer Catriona Mortimer, and her husband Randolph, who'll be with us by then."

"They've been working on spells all week," Anya said brightly. Only someone who knew her as well as Andrew did – and Giles, whose hold on her tightened – could tell how scared she was. For some strange reason it made Andrew feel a little better.

Tom raised his hand for silence. "Second: the former Council site in Bloomsbury. Because you, Spike, are now affiliated with that organisation–"

"Yep, done the fancy blood rites and what all."

Tom repeated more coldly, "Because you, Spike, are now affiliated with that organisation, as is Faith as a Slayer, and because we have intel that the muscle of Yeangelt's group will be there, we're sending you in through the tunnels. Xander Harris will accompany you as navigator; he's been studying the tunnel blueprints."

" _Shit_ ," Faith said, sinking deeper into the couch. When Spike patted her thigh again, she shoved his hand away.

Wes, who'd been watching all that, said, "Do you need an alteration to the plan, Faith? If so, tell us now."

"No. Five by five, big guy. Five by five." But she was lying, Andrew thought – she looked at her hands as she spoke, her nails digging deep enough into her jeans to draw blood.

"Third," Tom began, but he was interrupted by wild barking and the thunder of puppy paws up the stairs.

Macallan and Cava's eruption into the room was closely followed by Dawn, apologising for their misbehaviour even as she grabbed both dogs by the collars and dragged them over to Andrew. "What did I miss?" she whispered, collapsing on the other floor cushion with Mac. Andrew put his arm around Cava, holding her in place.

Before he could answer, the room fell silent. The MI6 spymaster Jools Siviter stood in the doorway. "Good evening. So sorry I'm late, but I had to get a couple of operatives sorted. Small nuclear crisis in Korea." His glance flicked over the two on the desk, and his smile grew. After taking a long drag on his cigarette, he said, "Ah, Tom. Doing your rehabilitation therapy? And assisted by the lovely Zoe too, how jolly."

"Hello, Jools," Giles said, preventing a Tom-explosion. "We've got a briefing folder for you, and if–"

"Good God, old man, surely you briefed me well enough yesterday during our squash game. There's nothing like chatting of apocalypse while smashing a little ball around." He removed the file from the empty armchair and sat down. "But no matter, I am a 'team player'. Might I also mention that I managed the recce of the Brixton site? I've found the way in."

"Oh, no," Wes said softly, as if the words could stop it from happening.

"Didn't you expect me, Wesley? I can't have this Yeangelt creature using my family's land for evil. I care about my family." That fake Siviter smile went away, leaving behind calculation. When he took another drag, the end of the cigarette went red for a long, long moment, and under the man's watch his mark of protection glowed. "Of course you and I shall work together. My boy, _try_ to think."

Andrew had to cuddle Cava closer to keep away the reflected chill. Mulder had been in Russia in "Tunguska" when the black stuff got him.

***

"I won't need you tonight. Either of you," Yeangelt said. "You may go."

After a sidelong stare at Nalph, who stood impassively by, Master Hat began, "But my Lady –"

"Do you pay me no heed, enforcer? Tonight my Pennith and Griffin will awake, and I don't have time for your complaints or questions. Go, attend to your work." She rearranged the lengths of silk over her arm – the fabric so cool, so powerful. She could read the signs with her fingers, feel the knowledge sink into her skin.

And she shut the door of the hidden room, leaving her alone with her sleepers.

Beside each bed, the black candle's light danced as she had. She went to each one in turn; with her free hand she sewed a seam in the air above each flame, and as she drew the power upwards, the fire followed.

She turned to Griffin first. Underneath his old silk coverlet he was moaning, the magick which ran up and down his body almost too bright to be looked at, the tattoos now pulses of energy. She had burned that nasty humanity out of him at last, she thought – although he had started the process with his signs and pictographs and his calls to powers great and small.

He would be a demon when he woke.

Humming a song she remembered from her travelling days, its notes edging the candlelight in cold black, she went to his feet. After a pass to sign her name in the air, she began to work the old silk away from his body – folding it to expose his patterned feet, doubling it to expose his shins, doubling again to expose his thighs, then his groin, his stomach, his chest. Last, she draped the heavy folds over his face. Although the pulses of magick lifted him off the bed, his covered head remained on the pillow.

She returned to his feet with one of the two prepared sheets. Humming louder, she placed it on his feet, then slowly, deliberately, unrolled it over his body. Her sigils on the patchwork burst into flame as the silk touched each new inch of tattooed skin.

When she reached his neck, she stopped. "Awake, Griffin, for the Rising Time," she chanted, repeating it twice – then, in one swift move, she took away the old silk from his face and covered it with the new. "Awake to me."

The pulses of magick died, and the hidden room was darkened for one long moment. But then he stirred, pulling the covering off his face. His eyes were a demon-grey now, as she had known they would be. "My lady, my lady. What happened?" His gaze focussed, sharpened. "Your sacred space – where's Ripper, did you catch the bastard?"

"Don't trouble yourself, Griffin." When she kissed him on the forehead, she felt the burn on her lips. "I took you and kept you safe. You've been asleep for some months, but you haven't missed the day we've worked for."

Sitting up so that the silk and smoke-traces pooled around his waist, he caught at her hand, bringing it to his mouth. "Thank you, Yeangelt. I won't forget."

"No, you won't," she said with a smile. "Now it's time for me to call Pennith out of his sleep."

"Pennith? Was it Ripper that did for him too?"

She laid her finger against his mouth. "Hush. No questions until after my Pennith is awake."

With a lightness she hadn't felt since she'd been trapped in this hell-world centuries ago, she turned to her first and best companion. Under his old silk coverlet he breathed softly, easily. She had expended a great deal of energy in healing his burns, and the silk cascaded smooth and even over his skin, the seams where she had patched him together now enfolded into the weave. Her sigils marked him everywhere, which was as it should be.

She kissed him through the barrier for the last time, taking his breath into hers and giving him hers, before she went to his feet. After a pass in the air to sign her name, and then his, she began to work the old silk away from his body.

For her Pennith, she sang.

***

"Fookin' _hell_ , man, that's ripe!" one sad drunk said, pushing at his equally pissed mate. When that landed them both on a rubbish sack, scattering garbage all over Soho Square, they collapsed together in helpless laughter.

"Honestly, some people are appalling," Giles said sotto voce, as he led Anya around the two writhing bodies.

Her hand tightened on his – he could feel her nerves as if they were his own, a razor's corner sliding along spine and throat – but she said calmly enough, "It's Soho, honey. What do you expect?"

"Good point." A streetlight flickered, and for just a moment he could see into the past – his past, another Soho alley where Ripper and Ethan and Dierdre stumbled magick-drunk into a seedy back-bar. He'd beaten up the bartender when the man had refused service, his fists pounding blood and bone out of the man's face while Ethan and Dierdre had drawn pints for them all. They'd laughed, too.

He fought back a familiar wave of self-disgust, which for some reason brought to mind Wes's offer: they want you back in the New Council . But he had it on good authority that he wasn't a Watcher any more, and he was tired of fighting the memories. No, he'd stay here with Anya where he wanted to be anyway, try to get the job right at last. Assuming they made it through the next couple of days, of course.

He repeated, "A good point, darling. Although it's a little early for that level of idiocy."

"Never too early for stupidity." Her profile was sharp and delicate in the shifts of shadow as they crossed the street; he kept stealing glances, committing the sight to memory. This, he wanted to remember always.

As they entered the dark, almost hidden alley, though, she said, "I think we threw an effective pre-apocalypse meeting, don't you? Except for occasional weirdness from a bleached-blond undead hero and an unnaturally strong brunette woman I won't mention, and also poor crazy Wes. Which reminds me, honey, why didn't you tell me you played squash with _Jools_?" She said his name with perfect scorn.

"I did. I told you yesterday morning when I left work to go to the club."

"You said you had an appointment."

"Yes, an appointment with Jools. I clearly recall saying that."

"But you played _squash_." More scorn. "What's that about, Rupert?"

A glance at his glowing watch-face showed they had a window of time; he could indulge them both for a second. Using their linked hands, he spun her back against the brick wall, then pressed himself into her, lifted her to her toes. She was so tiny that it worried him in the field – but he knew better than to say that aloud. "Er, you really want to know?" he said.

Even as her arms went around his neck, she said reprovingly, "Honey...."

But she couldn't finish whatever scold she had planned, because he'd taken her mouth. So sweet, this stolen kiss, despite the roughness of the brick and the city smells of garbage and diesel. As it went on, her hands flexed on his neck, nails sharp against his skin, and she ground against his cock. Time to stop it before he lost himself. Lifting himself away, he whispered, "Right. Squash, Anya, is a racquet game, played on an indoor four-sided court–"

Then he couldn't finish, because her hand had covered his mouth. "Wait. Demon," she whispered back. Now that she said it, he could smell something even more pungent than this sodding alley – concentrated, decaying earth.

She hid her face against him, her hands sliding under his jacket to fist onto his shirt, so that she wouldn't shake. He sheltered her as best he could.

Footsteps crumbled by, as if parts of the demon were falling off as it went. It was muttering, "No fresh soil-mash at Nalph's, not for the past fortnight. Don't know what's wrong with the merchant's supplies, can't imagine, unless it's the Lady's plans. And the glory that will be Yeangelt, the soil-mash for all!–" over and over.

Anya held onto him until the alley was empty again. Then: "Sorry, honey. But I knew that demon-guy. And he knows me, which is worse."

"Good thinking. Don't want our covers blown at this late date."

But the sweetness had gone out of the moment with the creature's mention of Yeangelt. They had work to do. After brushing her off, he led her further into the shadows. They'd almost reached the disguised door, in fact, before Anya punched him in the shoulder. "Oh, I almost forgot – 'squash is a racquet game'?"

He managed to smile at her. "Took you long enough, Tuppence. You're slipping." Then he turned his attention to the faintly glimmering entrance. Taking his lock-pick out of his jacket, he worked until it opened. After saying the requisite counter to its ward, they went inside.

The room was pitch-dark. He could hear Anya digging in her bag, rattling keys and wallet and Anya-things he couldn't begin to catalogue, until a click – her torch-beam came on. It played along the dusty floor, over a rickety bed and a few chairs, over the two interior doors and the wall-calendar which honoured June 1985 with the picture of a tabby kitten: normal decor for the least used backroom of Soho's most notorious vampire brothel. Luckily it was soundproofed, so they didn't have to listen to ambient moans of ecstasy.

"You've got the payment, right?" Anya asked.

"A little late to ask, but yes." His hand went to another pocket, feeling for the envelope.

As he got it out, the furthest interior door opened – the one which did not lead to the brothel– and Nalph sidle-hopped through. "London is changing –"

"–In ways surface and deep," Anya finished. "What news?"

Giles took the torch from her so that he could show Nalph the money before tossing it across to the Mikh. "Yes. News, please."

"She's waking them up tonight." Nalph was trembling, something Giles had never seen before, and his claws teased at his throat. "Pennith and Griffin are coming out of sleep. The Rising Time is close."

Anya's hand found Giles's in a convulsive movement, but her voice was steady. "Then will an attack tomorrow night be too late?"

"Just in time, I hope. The Lady likes to move at sunset – your people should be in place before then. Confirmed that Master Hat will be in Bloomsbury, Griffin in Brixton." Nalph was already back at his door, cracking it open.

Giles nodded. As they expected, except – "Why wouldn't Pennith be at the Council site too?"

"Because the Lady will never be separated from Pennith again. Together they will open the gates from the place wherein they were first trapped, unless you stop them." And Nalph was gone, leaving behind only dust and claw-marks.

"Well, honey, at least we know for sure. 'Postern of Fate,' tomorrow night." Her voice was the faintest chime.

"Yes. 'Disaster's Cavern' indeed." 'Fort of Fear'...and he shut off the torch. They'd done this enough times that they could make their way out in the dark.

***

Car horns, lots of them, as Faith and Wes jumped out of the road. Must have misjudged the lights, she guessed.

"Faith, stay with me. The path we want is around here." Watcher-boy had that tone working, that world-weary, Slayer-weary voice which scraped her raw. But everything after that meeting was scraping her last fucking nerve.

So she ignored him, shrugging deeper into her jacket to keep out the arctic wind that dipped around the buildings. They were on a busy street, with traffic and McDonald's and shit, which wasn't what she expected from London-town; she'd always imagined fog or something, old grey stones and tolling bells and horses drawing carriages. Like Wes's house, actually. Elinor Wyndam-Pryce definitely could have been one of the old bitch-queens in corsets or crinolines.

Yeah, during all her time alone in crappy motel rooms, Faith had watched too many old movies. Like those stupid black-and-white weepies where there were mistakes and heartache, but the girl ended up with the guy anyway after she'd atoned for her Horrible Sin. Somewhere inside she must have thought they were real or what the fuck ever.

Goddamn Xander Harris for making her think of old movies. Goddamn him twice for reminding her they were fake at the heart.

 _And whose fault is that?_ asked the nagging little voice in her head, the one she couldn't afford to ignore. _Who hurt him first and worst? No wonder he dropped your ass this time. Reap what you sow, baby._

A cold hand caught her elbow, and before she could stop herself, she whirled around with a stake ready. It was Wes of course, oh so cold, watching her every move – because that was what he did in the end. You could cut him, she thought with a sick lurch of the stomach, you could do anything you liked, but Wes would still watch. Reap what you sow, baby.

"Faith, would you please stay close." It wasn't a question, not when he used that Watcher-tone, but she nodded anyway. That little voice in her head – what Blond Boy called their 'Jiminy Crickets, and bloody annoying ones too' when they'd first shared conscience-stories over a six-pack – pointed out how sick and tired Wes looked. Ever since the day in Cleveland he and Spike had come to meet her, his eyes looked like they'd been dug out with a blue wood-burning pen.

She forced herself to smile, say, "Sorry, pal. I guess I should be paying attention."

"I won't be with you tomorrow night, so yes, it would be a good idea for you to know what the bloody hell you're doing." Without waiting to see if she followed, he turned on his heel and headed down an alley she'd almost missed.

Making sure to check the landmarks – two fast-food joints and a pub, the Marlborough Arms – she went after him. Strange thing, she thought as she dove into a shadow-pool and came up beside him: "Hey, Wes, you know who you sound like? Like that MI6 dude, except younger and not quite so creepy. All you need is the ciggie, man."

Even in the dark she could see those burnt blue eyes shine. "Oh, please. You're just trying to hurt my feelings now." There came a flash of teeth. Wes'd make one scary-ass vamp, she found herself thinking.

"Just sayin'."

"Yes. That's what terrifies me." More teeth, and a laugh that wasn't. "Come on then, we're almost there."

"Almost where?"

He stopped so sharp that she almost fell over him, had to grab his shoulder to stay steady. "Please tell me you're joking."

She put aside her need to smack him upside the head, and said in a good-Slayer voice, "We're almost to the, um, door into the room where we do the thing."

They were so close she could hear him swallow. "Er, fine. Except it would be helpful if you could be more specific than 'room' and 'thing.'"

"Well, as Blond Boy would say, we're spies, yeah? We can't be throwing details around in the street." She hoped that would be enough to satisfy him, because while she'd looked at the pages in Giles and Anya's folder, got a picture of the room and its trap-door and the way the tunnels curved around to the big location, she hadn't got the words. Never had.

Wes would know that if he'd take a sec. He was so close she could hear him swallow, feel his breath. He seemed damned breakable, suddenly. Not like the more solid man she'd thought she could count on, who'd let her down but who'd be with her tomorrow –

She turned away from the thought. And Wes said, "All right, Faith. Show me rather than tell me."

"You got it, big guy." It didn't take her long to find the tiny door, looked like the photo in the briefing. Bending down, she tried the doorknob. It didn't open. She tried again, more roughly.

"Don't break it, Faith." He jingled keys and then shouldered her out of the way, sharp like an unsheathed blade. After a moment, the door swung open, and he put a key in her hand. "Keep it safe."

They were in a bookshop's private space – she could just make out boxes and boxes on shelves against the walls, with every shadow thrown by the blue security lights stretching around corners and edges. The world was blue and black and white.

He shut the door, then gestured her forward. She closed her eyes, calling up the pictures in the folder even though she didn't have the words. The way down was through –"There," she whispered, walking to the nearest shelving unit and putting her hand on the end. "I press this knob, the trap opens, and down we go."

"Good." He was standing much closer than she'd realised. Really moved like a fucking vamp these days, she thought.

She turned around anyway. God, she felt scraped raw, and tomorrow night she'd have to put aside feelings and do her job. Like she always did when the world hurt too much, she reached out–

His hands came around her wrists, stronger than she expected. "Faith, what do you think you're doing?"

Much, much closer than she expected. Trying not to think of that other, solid frame which just fit hers or the soft leather of an eyepatch pressing into her cheek, she leaned forward for comfort. "Just once, do you think, pal?"

Too close; his voice burned cold. "Certainly. If you wish–" And she was scraped by stubble and cold lips, in a kiss like an unsheathed blade. It hurt more than she could bear, and then he lifted his mouth and whispered, voice a river of longing, "Lilah."

"Wesley, _don't_." She could barely get the words out before he pushed her away.

"I'm so sorry. God, I'm sorry, Faith." He stood there, coloured in blue and black and white, and she thought again of old movies and lies and the comfort of leather pressing against her cheek.

Gonna do it right this time, she told herself, and she made herself smile. "I'm sorry, Watcher-boy. My fault first. Now we know how the deck's shuffled, we won't draw to that shit again."

"Thank you. But I'm still more sorry." She could barely hear him, but she could see the shine of his eyes. "Do you want to visit the tunnel now, see how the land lies for tomorrow?"

"Think I got it, Wes." Got the picture, if not the words. "Let's call it a night."

***

Dawn sat on top of the patio table, then took a sip of the Tynant Blue she'd liberated from Giles's stock. Coolness, sparkling inside and out; water might drown her nervousness at the idea of dimensional portals opening. Pulling her coat around her neck, she whistled to Cava who leapt up beside her and snuggled in, and then said, "Hey, Spike, don't touch that."

He was wandering the back garden, restless and prowly in a way she recognised from before the soul, drinking his beer. The solar lights that Anya and Giles had put in shimmered on his jacket and hair; the fallen angel, she thought, not to be confused with Angel himself–

But his journey had brought him to the small laceprig web resting in the far corner, and his hand was too close. She said more sharply, "No, seriously, don't touch it."

His face was hidden, but she could see his shoulders tense. "Sorry, Dawn. Just a bunch of bloody laceprigs, though, yeah?"

"Laceprigs rescued from a horrible demon attack and tended by Anya, who would _so_ dust your ass if you hurt the web. It's like a symbol for her and Giles? It's, you know, about their first night, and them, and...."

He looked over his shoulder at her, a smile touching his mouth. "I do get symbols. Right, okay." Then his head bent again as he scuffed his boot against the gravel path.

"It doesn't have guards either. The web, I mean. Their Kizzyoits were killed, and Anya hasn't been able to find any more."

"No guards. That's a problem." He sent a pebble hard against the fence, its impact making Cava growl.

She didn't know what to talk about, exactly. It was so great to have him here – she'd cried after the Sunnydale crater, even if Buffy hadn't much, and she'd been e-mailing and stuff since she'd heard he was back, but they hadn't really talked since before the whole...thing that sent him to Africa. They were both different people now, she almost a Watcher and he a hero, and it was hard to connect again.

She wished Andrew would get back from the shops with the beer. They hadn't realised Spike (and Wes and Tom) would drink so much at the meeting, so he'd gone off to replenish the supply. She could use her best friend right now.

Another drink of water and another pat of Cava's neck (avoiding the snorting nose and digging paws) for her, and from Spike another kicked rock and swig of Bishop's Tipple before he said, "So, Dawn, you're really in the Council now? Say something in Watcher, pet."

"Nuh-uh, you're a Watcher too. You say something first."

"No, you."

"You."

"No, you–" Breaking off in a laugh, he assumed a pose that looked just like Wes, straight-backed and long-nosed. His voice changed too, went all posh: "As a Watcher, I specialise in demon counter-terrorism measures and special-action situations, as exampled by this Yeangelt bird's attempt to make London one big dimensional roundabout. And you?"

"Archivist or Slayer-management, I haven't decided yet." She grinned at him. "'Demon counter-terrorism measures'...good one, Spike."

But he wasn't smiling now. Oh, hell, she'd said the word – he was thinking of her sister the Queen Slayer, even if he didn't say so. Which reminded her she wanted the inside story: "So, what did Buffy say when she saw you in Cleveland?"

He froze, a second of old-school Spike who could rip a person's heart out with a smile. But he managed to get himself moving, keep his voice warm. "I didn't see her, petal. Wasn't there. I figured you'd know where she is."

"Only sort of; she's been, like, epically bad at checking in. Last I knew, she was still in Mexico. Baja California, actually– leading a group of Slayers to take on a Tchith ocean-demon that's supposed to emerge from the Gulf of California?"

"Oh, right. Training course of bad speeches and aerobics, do you reckon?" A smile, drawn tight like a frown. "I don't imagine I'll be socialising with her, even once the baddie is sent back into the blue. Um, sent her an email but she didn't write back."

She said quietly, "She's not so great with email. Like she doesn't write me for weeks, but then gets all bent out of shape when I don't send her one right back. Doesn't mean much, I bet, Spike."

"No. It doesn't mean much." And he was thinking something entirely different. Before she could respond, though, he did this familiar sweep of the duster, like brushing away the Buffy-angst, and said, "Anyway, how do you fancy London, pet? Rupes and demon-girl keep you safe?"

"Oh, they're great, and I _love_ London, it's totally like my spiritual home. You should have told me!" Smirking at her, he sent another pebble against the fence with an easy sweep of his foot. She went on, "And how do you like working with Faith and Wes?"

His reply was drowned by Cava's explosion of barking, her flying leap off the table toward the French doors. Inside, Macallan was going crazy with barking too – Dawn immediately thought of danger and intruders and the fact they didn't have the wards up. Jumping down, she turned to investigate –

But the doors smashed open to reveal Xander, breathing hard and holding a big bouquet of flowers. "Did I miss her?" he panted. Then he actually looked at the two of them. "Oh, hey! Hey, Spike."

"Harris, you really _shouldn't_ have," Spike said at his smoothest and most obnoxious.

"What the– Oh. Funny," Xander said, sticking the flowers behind his back. But he smiled. "Good to see you. I think."

"I tried to tell you, Xander!" Andrew's voice came from the hallway, just before he emerged with a full sack in his arms. "I tried to say that Faith had already left, but Spike was here."

"Good to see you too, Harris. And you can make up to our Faith tomorrow on our mission – if she doesn't punch your lights out first," Spike said, prowling up to the patio. "Not best pleased you dropped her flat, you know."

"But I _didn't_! I tried to call, like five times, but you guys were always out Slaying shit in your Mod-Squad-without-the-black-guy way, and –" Xander stopped, sighed. The flowers dropped to the ground. "I screwed it up again, didn't I."

"Yeah. Lesson the first: don't take a sodding 'break' from a glorious woman like Faith." But he grinned, and then he and Xander did this sort of masculine mutual-arm-slapping thing, which was so lame that Dawn couldn't believe she'd ever had a crush on either one. Before they could embarrass themselves further, he said, "Say, Andy, did you fetch more beer?"

"Beer! This member of the Council votes a big fat 'Yea' on a pre-apocalypse beer!" Xander said enthusiastically, and the two of them dove into Andrew's bag for more bottles.

Dawn crossed behind them and bent to pick up the fallen flowers. So pretty, too, rich blooms in oranges and yellows that she bet Faith would like. She'd just rescue them for tomorrow – a night when portals would open. She buried her face in the bouquet, hoping the spicy scent would drown her nerves.

***

Ninety-seven, ninety-eight...."Ninety-nine. One hundred," Anya said aloud, counting the brushstrokes. Then she tossed the brush on the bathroom counter and rubbed at her forehead. The nightly ritual should have soothed her, but she still felt uneasy. Couldn't stay still....

"Did you say something?" Rupert said, poking his head in the door.

"No, just grooming myself."

"Right." He disappeared. After one last look in the mirror, at her own distressed eyes, she pushed away from the counter and followed him into their bedroom.

Shirt open and glasses already off, he stood at his dresser, unloading his trouser pockets. This process could hypnotise her, especially the way he'd get a handful of coins and then drop them one by one into the jar. Pound coins made the best sound, solid like an anchor.

But she couldn't stay still – "Honey, did you put the dogs to bed?"

"Yes." Gold chinked on gold, and again, and again.

"Did you give them their treats?"

One last coin before he stepped away from the dresser. "Darling, there's no sodding reason to give them treats at bedtime."

"Well, there might not be a reason, but it's nice."

"Then you do it, because I think it's insane." As he headed toward the bathroom, he stopped to brush his cheek against hers, the light stubble a pleasant irritation that made her toes curl a little. "Do I need to shave before bed?"

"Depends on what you're planning to do there," she said breathlessly.

"That would be telling. But I'll take that as a 'no.'" His mouth found hers – sweet, but yes, a little rough, and she didn't mean his whiskers. He'd been hiding something from her all night, she thought, he often got Ripperish when he wasn't telling her important marital facts. That made her as nervous as what they were going to have to do tomorrow.

Before she could mention this, however, he disappeared into the bathroom. She took the opportunity to gather two of the bones she kept on a jar on her dresser and then step out into the hall, where Macallan and Cava had their beds. There was a hum of voices from downstairs – Andrew, Spike and Xander were playing poker, with the latter two making significant strikes on the local beer supply as well – but the dogs seemed happy enough, Cava curled up inside the curve of Mac's stomach. She gave them their treats, with Macallan getting an extra cuddle because she did love him best.

When she went back into the bedroom, locking the door behind her, she couldn't seem to settle. She hung up the jacket Rupert had left on the chair, checked the lit candles, turned off the bedside lamps, plumped up the pillows and pulled back the duvet, but it wasn't enough. Wind rattled the windows above their bed, the draught creeping down to chill her bare legs. The seal wasn't holding very well; it was an old house, lots of places for weather to sneak in. They'd have to fix it. After tomorrow, though.

Driven by nerves and silence, she crawled into bed and then sat there, hands folded on the duvet, waiting. Rupert came out of the bathroom, wearing only his pajamas bottoms and licking a bit of toothpaste from the corner of his lips. After he tossed his clothes in the hamper, he padded back to the dresser. He still wore his watch and his father's ring.

And she burst out, "Honey, if I tell you one thing, will you tell me something in return?"

"Oh, God," he said under his breath, but when he looked at her, he was smiling. "Fine. It's a bargain."

"That's why I love you. You understand bargains."

"Really. You keep changing the reason." He dodged the bolster she threw in his direction, then put away his watch. "Go on, darling, you first."

"Okay. Okay...remember the earth-demon in the alley outside Madame Sangre's tonight?" He nodded. "His name's Pim; I knew him when I was Anyanka. And, um, when I ran from one of the many apocalypses –"

"Seven hundred and thirty-six," he said.

Her story broken, she stared at him. "How did you know the number of apocalypses I fled as a demon?"

"Don't you remember? The night, er, triggered Spike attacked you." He came over to the bed and sat down, reaching out one big hand to cover hers. "When I got you that painkiller, it made you a bit... odd before it knocked you out. You told me that you always ran from apocalypses except when you were in love. Then you gave the numbers: seven hundred thirty-six escaped, three present and accounted for." His other hand caressed her cheek. "You were counting the last Sunnydale one to come in the 'present' column, I believe, dearest."

"Wow. Good memory," she said, at a loss for words.

His thumb traced her cheekbone, one more brush of love, before he dropped his hand. "So you're worried about this one? Feel like running?"

"No. And yes. No, because of course I love you, but also because it's our job, and it's what we should do. I'm staying. But I'm scared, and I'm not sure about any of this, so yes. I'm sorry, yes."

"No need to apologise to me." When he looked down at their linked hands, she did too; his father's ring glittered, catching the candlelight. More softly, he said, "I've done my share of running, Anya. I understand."

"But not from apocalypses, because you're brave. Often idiotic, but brave." She leaned forward and kissed him, making him open his mouth for her, let her taste him. Then, she said, "Okay, that was mine. What's your one thing?"

He rested his forehead on her shoulder. "All right. Wes told me tonight that the Council wants me back."

"Oh. Oh, come on, honey, I thought it was something awful, but that's just – Wait. Do they want us to go back to Cleveland?"

"Anya, that's not the point. I'm not joining the Council again, that's why I didn't tell you."

She put her hands on his shoulders to make him look at her. "Why not? That's just silly, especially if you broker a deal to keep us here at home. You _are_ a Watcher; you do the work, you might as well get the title. And possibly a salary."

"For Christ's sake, Anya." He jerked away from her, pulling off his father's ring as he went. "Do we have to go through this every bloody time?"

She could have thumped him. But – "Would my talking about this tonight change your mind in any way?"

"No." He reached over and put the ring on his bedside table. Metal clattered on wood.

"All right then. I'm tabling this topic until after tomorrow, when perhaps you'll be ready to hear reason." When he sent her a narrow-eyed stare, she thought again how very much of a Watcher the stupid man was. But she loved him anyway. "However, if you'd paid attention, I said we'll talk about it _later_. You're safe for now."

"Oh, good," he said dryly. He looked at the candles for a minute, staring at something in the flames, before he turned back to her. The expression she hated, the one he hid behind, was gone, and he was her Rupert again. "How tired are you, Anya?"

"More nervous than tired," she said, letting her fingers caress his thigh, hard under the silk.

"Ah. Will you let me try to deal with your nerves my way?"

She could feel herself melt at just the soft tone, the intentness in his eyes. Exhaling hard, she said, "Be my guest, honey."

"Then lie back with your head on my pillow, dearest, and close your eyes."

When she did what he said, wriggling back to where he wanted her and shutting her eyes, the candlelight danced in weird patterns on the inside of her vision, coloured by night and blood. She could feel his weight shift, feel big hands trace along the inside of her wrist and up under her nightshirt, follow along blood vessels with a delicate touch. "Lift up your arms, and keep them there," he said. When she did, she felt the metal of the bedstead cold against her skin. The wind tickled her fingers.

His weight left her for a second, but she could still hear him – rummaging around in his bedside table, it seemed, which made her mouth curve in a smile. Then he was back, body pressing against her, and yes, there were the handcuffs she'd hoped for. First he secured one wrist, then did something before attaching the other. An experimental tug told her that he'd wrapped the cuffs around one of the wrought-iron rods.

"May I open my eyes now?"

"You may not." He began to open her nightshirt, kissing every inch that each freed button revealed. The whiskers biting into her skin were sharp, almost painful in the best way, and she arched up into each kiss, her legs shifting on the sheets like the flame in the draught. Lower, and lower, and lower – but not low enough, because right below her navel he stopped. Teasing bastard.

It almost made her want to cry, even more than moan, "Rupert, please –"

Again he left the bed, just long enough so she felt how alone she was, felt the nerves return in a wave of nausea. Not long enough to say anything, though, because then he was back, naked and covering her. So warm and hard, with honey from the tip pressed against her belly. He kissed her neck, bringing the blood to her skin, and then whispered, "Do you feel anchored yet?"

"How–" she had to moisten her lips, she couldn't breathe– "how did you know I was thinking about anchors?" When he chuckled, she could feel the vibration everywhere. She tried again. "Yes, I'm here. But I'm the only one tied up."

"No, you're not." She felt his left hand reach over to her left, felt the tap of his wedding ring against hers even before she heard the gentle but solid chink of gold against gold. "I'm with you. Always."

Then her ankles were on his shoulders, and she couldn't listen any more, could only feel him slide inside, while candlelight danced in weird patterns, coloured by love and blood.

***

Nalph had served patrons all night, giving out potions and merchandise, taking in notes and coin. He had nodded to his faithful, greeted the few newcomers curious about the Yeangelt rumours, heard over and over again the password – There is no password . Nothing would stop anyone from crossing the threshold into his world.

But now he saw a chance to regroup; the events of the evening had troubled him more than he'd anticipated. He needed a moment of peace. He said to his assistant, "Work the counter for a few minutes, please."

"Of course," Dalgen said. Even as he spoke, The Mikh youth hopped toward one of their best customers, who scanned the shelves for ossified Bagog scales.

The babies' skulls chattered as Nalph passed, but once in his private space, the noise level dropped. He could feel the breath return to his body and the trembling he'd suppressed slip away – his space, his home.

He went into his office, lighting the desk lantern on his way to his own perfectly sized chair. The Azi demon stirred in its cage, whistling softly to mark its attention. "Hush now, Haloo," Nalph said as he sank into his seat. "Let me rest."

But when he leaned his head back, a shadow in the doorway took shape. "Hello, Nalph," said Pennith, in that rumbling basso voice.

"You are awake, sir," Nalph said. He locked his claws on his armrests. "A happy day for the Lady and all of us who follow her."

"I appreciate that, Mikh-merchant. But my lady tells me that while I have been –indisposed?– there has been no success in finding the Beresfords. Or the man called Ripper, who wounded Griffin so."

"We all have done what we can." He was proud of his even voice, although the wood of his chair was splintering in his grasp.

"Have you? Perhaps we should talk about these efforts. I want to hear every detail." Pennith took a step forward, then shut the office door behind him.

Haloo erupted in a cascade of frightened whistles, its sandpaper wings beating out a warning against the walls of the cage.


	3. Chapter 3

A scream, loud yet thick with mud, broke the deep silence underground. "Sir, please–" the creature cried, his claws scrabbling for a hold on the tunnel wall. Since his arms were broken, though, they slipped down into pain.

"'Please' what?" Pennith said with a hiss.

The earth-eater coughed up dirt. "Please don't, sir, please–"

"My Pennith, are you not finished yet? The day is breaking." He looked around to see Yeangelt and Griffin standing at the mouth of the Mysterious Emporium's main tunnel, Master Hat hanging behind. His lady's smile, mystery he'd followed across dimensions and time, wavered in the flame of the black candle she held. "You need to rest before we begin our journey."

"I've done nothing but rest for too long. I wished to collect the last of what we need, my lady," he said. "Even if it's from this...what was your name again, earth-worm?"

"Pim, sir." He was trying to crawl away into the depths –

Which certainly couldn't be allowed. Pennith shot out one hand, catching the creature by the throat, then smiling over his shoulder at his great lady. "Yeangelt, would you like to take our last spirit?"

"Not our last, surely." When Griffin's voice rumbled in the tunnel, more of the earth-creature shuddered off his bones, red mud slick as blood. They needed to hurry before the demon shivered himself into nothingness.

"No, not our last. But we value every contribution. Hold this, my Griffin." Handing her candle to the man – no, not man any longer, Pennith remembered–she came to them. After a delicate touch on Pennith's shoulder, she gazed at the crumbling demon. "You are Pim, is that right?"

"Yes, my lady." The words were mud-choked, almost inaudible.

"We appreciate you on this day of the dead," she said. "You will be part of our Rising Time." Then, as she sewed one sharp stitch in the air, the earth-demon collapsed in on himself, shattered.

Pennith leapt forward with the glass he had ready, saying the words of the magick under his breath. A green mist rushed from the dying creature's body into the container, and the demon screamed his last. One more spirit well-caught.

And Yeangelt smiled at them all, a dark light in the tunnel. "It is time at last to prepare ourselves for the opening. Tonight all who wish shall go home."

***

Andrew struggled to open the front door, hindered as he was by the morning barks and bounces of the collie and terrier. The second the door cracked open, however, they burst outside. Grabbing fruitlessly at their trailing leashes, he hurried after them. "Stop, stupid dogs," he said, which they ignored.

From inside came a sharp "Macallan! Cava!" At the sound of their names they skidded to a halt, gravel spraying outside the path like rain. Cava dropped onto her belly at once, but Macallan waited until "Down" was spoken in the same commanding tone.

"Yes, you guys, get down," Andrew added, trying too late for Giles's note and failing miserably. Stupid dogs, he thought again.

Giles, dressed for their run, shut the door behind him. "You need to concentrate if you're going to use your voice to control them. Take it down, and keep it even."

"'Take it down, and keep it even.' Okay." Andrew made a mental note, even though he still felt foggy and forget-y from staying up late with Spike and Xander. Playing poker with them had been like a dream or something, watching them tussle over cards and beers in the soft kitchen light, hearing them laugh, getting the odd smile or slurred question. He'd been part of a trio again, but a better one – no, no, bad thought. He really did need to concentrate. "Is the voice control like a Watcher thing?" Not a Jedi thing, which wasn't real. "And um, does it work?"

"It occasionally works on dogs. Very occasionally," Giles said, with a glimmer of mentor-guy amusement. Andrew considered saying something about Giles being a real Watcher, since Dawn had instructed him to reinforce the point, but she'd also told him to pick his spots carefully. Somehow the morning dog run on the day of a big, terrifying mission didn't seem like a good time.

Giles bent down to pick up Macallan's leash, wincing a little as he did and muttering, "Bloody hell."

"Are you all right, Giles?" Andrew imitated his action but with Cava, who responded by jumping to bite at his sweatshirt hem. But then he hadn't tried the voice: take it down, keep it even, he told himself.

"Just, er, a deal of exercise yesterday. A bit sore." A private smile, which told Andrew all about what kind of exercise it had been. At least that meant Anya would be in a good mood – were it not for the impending minor apocalypse, of course. "Shall we keep it to a mile and a half this morning? We're going to have a tiring day, after all."

Andrew stared at him. Although he had been studying English customs, he still hadn't got the understatement thing. "Um, Giles? Do you really think today is just going to be 'tiring'?" Because even for those of us who'll be manning Op Central, and even though I triumphantly survived one apparent end of days already, well–"

"It's all right to be scared, Andrew." Although Giles appeared to be looking at Mr Weir two doors down who was dragging his garbage to the kerb, Andrew was pretty sure he was gazing at some interior vision of the day ahead. "You'd be a fool not to be."

"Oh, I'm not _scared_." Though the black-oil worms had never gone away, even during the magic of the card game. "That would imply distrust of my team, and I'm very team-oriented."

Giles didn't laugh, but he made the sort of Gandalf-sound which meant he would be laughing if he weren't humouring a hobbit. "Right. Well, come on," he said, as he opened the gate and took Macallan through it. The two of them began to run into the morning wind.

"Cava, come," Andrew said, but she was already bulleting after them. "No, wait! Heel! Stop!" Not that she paid attention – she dragged him into the street too. He could barely keep up, tripping over the cracks in the pavement, hand on the leash.

He really needed to concentrate, he told himself again, already out of breath.

***

The good smells of breakfast – sausages, kippers, coffee – drew Wes down the hall toward the morning room. As had been his habit since childhood, he stepped only on the black tiles in the floor, avoiding the white so he didn't get them dirty.

He hadn't done family breakfast for years. He'd been gone so long, and last year his mother had been too distressed about his father to insist on the family ritual that had defined them, the servings of cold words and hot shame to start the day. He was weary of feasting on disapproval and self-disgust.

Not that the dishes had been replaced yet. Shutting his ears to the Lilah voice which had so taken over him that he had called his Slayer by her name, which had kept him awake half the night with images of trapdoors and hard crystal tears, he walked faster –

Straight into Faith as she sped out of the morning room.

"Hey, Wes, watch it!" She grabbed at his shoulders, although he didn't know which one of them she was trying to steady. At least she wasn't avoiding him: a small but important blessing.

"Good morning, Faith," he said, making himself smile. "Finished breakfast?"

"Um, no...." Glancing over her shoulder, she pulled him down the hall and into an alcove, perilously near a display table of his mother's treasures. She whispered, "You don't want to go in there."

"Why?"

"It's fucking creepy. I thought you had to pay and shit to get into Madame Tussaud's." She shivered. "I'm gonna go to Giles and Anya's for breakfast instead, hang out there before mission time. Want to come too?"

"No, thank you. I grew up with 'fucking creepy.'" This time his smile wasn't forced – something about this warrior being intimidated by his elegant fifty-year-old mother tickled his fancy.

Faith smiled in return, her hands patting his shoulders in what seemed like an unconscious caress. "Pretty sure you haven't seen this version." Then, as if she suddenly realised what she was doing, she stepped back, almost knocking over the table full of Wedgwood figures in the process. "Sorry, man."

"Faith–" Apparently they weren't going to get past last night's madness so easily. "Stop. It's all right, or at least I hope it is. I'm the one who's sorry, remember?"

He watched her bring herself under control, in an effort that he never would have seen five years ago. These small moments were when he realised just how much work she'd done to change. But then she smiled, a wide, knife-edged show of teeth to remind him how very much she was still the same. "Hell, Wes, you'd think we'd done the dirty in the middle of the street or something. One kiss, no big – could have been one fuck, still no big. Don't say 'sorry' again, okay? We're cool."

He didn't say anything at first. After counting to ten, then to twenty, he said, "Yes, fine. Well then – I'll see you and Spike at Investigations and Acquisitions later."

"Yeah. Yeah, you will." She hesitated. "You gonna be okay here with the waxworks?"

"Certainly. And you know, you might read the briefing folder before the actual mission, prepare yourself for whom and what you'll be aiming at –"

"Fuck you. Just for that, I'm not telling you what I was gonna." She punched him casually in the arm, which he was fairly sure wasn't meant to hurt him.

"What?"

"Nope. You lose, sucker." Waving a casual goodbye – was that her middle finger?– she strode away toward the door.

"Do you have Giles and Anya's address? Do you need the cab fare?" he called after her. Oh, _that_ was the middle finger. He found himself smiling again.

Only a few black tiles left to touch, only the faintest echo-chamber effect of hellish laughter in his ears – he made it safely into the light and air of the morning room. His mother sat in her accustomed place at table, glancing through the _Telegraph_ and sipping at her coffee. "Good day, son," she said without looking up.

"Hello, Mother–" But he fell silent when he saw the room's other occupant.

"Good morning to you, Wesley," Jools Siviter said. Dressed as if he were off for a morning ride and carrying a plate he'd just filled at the sideboard, he took his seat next to her. "Would you pour me a coffee, Elinor?"

"Of course." She set aside the paper, then reached for the coffeepot. The domestic ease in the way she fixed Siviter's cup, adding sugar and cream without asking him what he took, troubled Wes more than the man's presence; it was like how she'd treated his father all those years, yet warped in some way he couldn't quite identify. Then it came to him: she was smiling. She never smiled in the morning.

He stood, angry for a reason he couldn't name.

After swallowing a bite of toast, Siviter said irritably, "For God's sake, Wesley, get your food and sit down. You'll need to eat – we've got a great deal of work ahead of us. I'd like to review the protocols before we go, especially the backup plans for any... undocumented dimensional immigrants."

"Cook's prepared your favourite eggs, son, and I think you'll find everything you need," she said. "Oh, your paper, Julian. I almost forgot." After handing the man a copy of _The Times_ , she went back to her reading.

"Excuse me. Is there something I should know?" Wes's voice was as civil as he could make it, if distant, and he wrapped his hands around a chair back so that he could still stand without throwing something through the window.

His mother and Siviter exchanged a long look before she said, "Yes, Wesley, and we'll talk about it soon. But I believe you have more pressing concerns at the moment. Sit down and eat your breakfast."

"I don't think so, Mother. I'd like whatever information you're keeping from me."

"I'm disappointed, my boy. I'd assumed you were cleverer than this." Siviter sipped at his coffee, then pushed away his cup. After a brush over Elinor's hand so swift that Wes almost missed it, he reached into his blazer and pulled out a cigarette case. While flicking it open and extracting a thin brown cigarette: "If his hints a few days ago were any indication, even Rupert and his exceptionally strange wife have put two and two together. By the by, Elinor, did I mention how much Grandmother likes Mrs Giles? She's even asked her to tea. That's grounds enough for me to have her committed, wouldn't you say?"

"Hush, Julian. You're terrible." When she returned his caress, her fingers dancing over his, the man subsided into a cloud of smoke.

Wes's grip tightened on the chair back until he could feel wood cut into his palms. "Is it just possible that I'm to have a new father?" he said, chipping the words out of ice.

"Not exactly," his mother said. She rose from her seat and came to him, put her hand to his face just as she had the night his father had died. He remembered vaguely that there had been something else odd then, too, besides the unfamiliar maternal affection -- "Not a _new_ father, Wesley."

Siviter stood too. "Your mother and I had planned this conversation a bit differently, you know. Can't say I think the morning of an op is quite – well, never mind."

"Julian, stop trying to put this off. I shan't humour you any longer." Her hand pressing against Wes's cheek forced him to look at her. She was smiling again, as if a cool breeze had stirred a curtain behind which the real Elinor Wyndam-Pryce had hidden for years: not much different from the mother he had thought he knew, but younger, less remote. She said, "My son, Roger gave you his name and raised you. Not as well as he might have, perhaps, but then he wasn't your father."

Siviter exhaled a hiss of smoke, withdrawing behind nonchalance. "It's simple enough, really. Sixteen-year-old boy falls in love with the girl on a neighbouring estate, she falls in love with him, they express their love in the usual idiotic and unprepared way, she gets pregnant. Family uproar, boy sent off to France to finish school, girl married off to the old family friend who volunteers for the duty. Boy and girl keep silent for as long as the family friend is alive." He examined his cigarette, almost burned down to ash, then with a sudden violent movement crushed out what was left. "Even Wagner couldn't have made anything out of the damned sickly story."

Dates and times arranged themselves in Wesley's mind, conclusions striking like a cane across his neck, and he fell into the chair in front of him. "Oh. Oh, _fuck_."

"Wesley, please! You forget yourself," his mother snapped.

"Elinor, a less apropos expression one could scarcely hope to find," Siviter – no, his father, oh God, his father – said as he lit another cigarette. "Let the boy alone. Or perhaps get him some coffee, he looks like he needs something hot."

With a ladylike sound of disapproval, his mother moved toward the coffeepot, leaving Wes free to look across the table, try to trace himself in the other man. It was all too horribly easy: height, nose, eyes...."Yes," he said. "I see it."

"Of course, it's obvious. But you can bloody well deal with all the emotional trauma later. We have lives to save and demons to handle – which reminds me, after breakfast we need to think about an emblem of protection for you." Waving away a handful of smoke, he smiled. "And call me Jools, son."

Wes felt as if he'd stepped on an ordinary black square and dropped through a trapdoor. As he fell, he could hear Lilah laughing.

***

Swimming up from uneasy sleep, Xander tasted dog fur and dead beer on his tongue, ached in his bones. When he coughed, the after-effect was a painful, drawn-out dry retch. All in all, he felt like shit.

"Sod it, Harris. Some of us are tryin' to catch a few winks before prime demon-hunting time," a familiar voice said at his back. When the owner of the voice turned over, the covers slipped down Xander's body, leaving a shock of cold.

"Shut the fuck up, Spike," Xander said, pulling the covers back up and closing his eye again–

before snapping full awake. "Spike? Um, is that you?"

"Who the bloody hell else?" A cool bare foot brushed against Xander's ankle, which made him turn colder. "But it's my bed, so you shut the fuck up and let me get some kip." There were rustles and grumbles from Spike's side, then a deathly vampire-type stillness.

Okay, Xander, don't panic, he told himself. Although he couldn't remember exactly what had happened, there were misty water-coloured memories –

No, stop. He remembered last night now: the train delay outside Slough, the flowers bought at Paddington for Faith who'd already left Giles and Anya's. Funny to be the one left for a change. There had been disappointment and Heineken, and a poker game that had gone on for hours. He and Spike had been getting along pretty well, until like an idiot he'd mentioned Buffy and then Spike had slammed back with a dig about Faith – and then came a lot more beer. Much too much beer.

He also vaguely remembered losing the last poker hand to Andrew and signing away his entire comic-book collection. Of course drunk Xander had forgotten to mention that the collection had been destroyed in the Sunnydale crater. Which was the same crater that had swallowed Spike, who was back and lying next to him– "Oh God oh God," he said into the pillow. "Where did it all go so horribly wrong?"

"'Round about the fifth beer, I reckon," Spike said, sounding very much awake. "You all but passed out, mate – didn't think pouring you in a cab was the answer, so me and Andy dragged you in here to save Rupes and Anya from finding you snoring at their kitchen table."

"It's England. I blame it all on England." Xander suddenly felt very, very tired. He rolled over and looked up; the guest room's blue ceiling had some kind of insane paint effect, blotchy and nausea-inducing. "Thanks. And man, do you even _know_ how much you just sounded like Faith?"

"Only natural, us working together and what all – but we're just colleagues and friends, right. Don't get fussed about me and your girl. Well, your girl if you had the sense of a sodding gnat."

Yeah, if he had the sense of a fucking gnat and he didn't feel so crap...."Seriously, where did it all go so wrong?" he asked the ceiling.

"Seriously?" Spike was silent for a long minute, in which Xander stared upward, listening to the muffled sounds of Anya and Andrew and the dogs stirring outside the room, feeling the ache of what and who wasn't there. Then:"Went pear-shaped too long ago to figure it. But it bloody well did."

"Yeah."

They lay there together, unmoving yet kind of comfortable. If Xander thought about the moment, he'd be weirded out, so he didn't think about it. Just lay next to an undead enemy turned world-saviour and read the paint smudges on the ceiling like clouds, like a map to nowhere. After a minute he said, "I've been thinking – do you ever want to go back and start over, Spike?"

"All the time. All the fucking time. Tell you about Angel some day... but no. The real hell of it is, you can't. Only way out is forward."

"Yep. That's the hell of it." More silence, deeper and mistier than clouds. He found himself thinking of Faith again, of what he hadn't done and what he'd missed.

But from beside him came a sudden familiar taunt, an echo from a long-gone basement. "Xaaander."

He couldn't help his smile, but for form's sake – "Quit it, Spike."

"Xaaander, are you ready to navigate? Lead us into darkness and disaster and what all?"

"Damn it, shut up. I thought you were all soul-having now." Without looking, he pushed at Spike's shoulder – which had absolutely no give.

"Nothing 'bout the soul says I can't take the piss, mate." That was his normal voice, before one more "Xaaaander."

Despite the hangover, Xander managed to shove at him again, grinning. "Freak."

A shove back. "You're the sodding freak, carpenter-boy. Can't believe I'll be following you."

Then there was a strange moment where they were both pushing, kind of wrestling without strength, and it was like high school but _not_ , really not, and they'd gone back to a place where they'd never been–

The guest room door opened. "I knew it," Anya announced from the doorway.

"What?" With a return of nausea, Xander realised that he and Spike were locked together, shirtless and under the covers, which must look like – "No, Anya! There is no 'knew it'! Nothing to know!"

"Calm down," she said, over Spike's laughter. That guy couldn't really have a soul if he'd laugh at a time like this. "I meant I knew you had a hangover, Xander. You can stop the unnecessary homophobic panic at any time." Then she looked over her shoulder. "Please bring in their breakfasts, Andrew. These two need to be ready for their role in today's mission."

Andrew appeared, bearing two glasses full of blood-red liquid which made Xander's stomach lurch harder. The dogs burst in before him, leaping onto the bed, barking and jostling, and Xander found himself with a face full of terrier ass. He hoped that didn't explain the taste of dog fur.

"Blood and burba for you, Spike. The famous Magic Box Morning-After Potion for you, Xander – plus tomato juice," Andrew said, carefully not looking at them as he came toward the bed.

"Cheers," Spike said, sitting up to take the glass, casual as if he did this every day.

"Okay, great, thanks," Xander got out, once he pushed Cava away. He grabbed the glass Andrew held out to him; the first mouthful of juice slipped down easy, taking the edge off all the aches and panic.

Anya said to Andrew, "I'm going to finish the protection-bracelets before we leave to meet the others – please come help me when you're finished, okay?" After he nodded, she looked toward the bed. "By the way, Faith's going to be arriving any minute for breakfast, so you might want to get out of bed. Or not." The smile that flashed across her face was pure vengeance. "You see, Xander, I also knew you always wanted Spike."

While Spike fell back on the pillows and guffawed, while Andrew made a little noise that really shouldn't be identified, Xander downed the rest of his drink in one gulp. Then he said to the ceiling, "Where oh fucking where did it all go so wrong?"

***

"Good morning, Mr Takicopoulos. Two coffees and one tea, please, to take away," Giles said, pushing money across the counter.

While the cafe owner began a quiet conversation with Giles about Dawn's beverage preference, Willow clutched her backpack more securely and stared at the window. In the grey morning, strange shadows hovered between her and the street, between her and Giles – the cloaking spell she'd cast reflecting like a broken mirror. She smiled at herself.

Broken mirrors could be remade, of course, and Randolph and Catriona, whom she'd grown to adore in the last weeks, were up in the Investigations and Acquisitions office preparing the conference room and arranging the mirrors they'd made for later.

In Devon she and the Mortimers had beaten silver into blessed wood; they'd forced the elements into a hollow like Michael had shown them, and then pieced together the edges with bits from the scrying mirror Giles and Anya had shattered during their honeymoon. As she worked on hers, she had felt the hum of power from the broken shards: dim silhouettes of roses and stairs and a cup sliced in two, and her fingers shadow-burned with the acid of falling leaves from a tree that was far from home. But she had been in Tor House, where she was always safe.

When she had put the last piece into its place, her mirror had flashed, her reflection going from red to white in the glass. That change might have been past, might be yet to come. The evening would show.

"Willow. Your coffee?" Giles said at her elbow, holding out her cup. Steam rose through the small hole in its lid and warmed her hand when she took it.

"Thanks, Giles." She smiled up at him, letting him open the door for her even though the gesture was a relic of a patriarchal age and he was carrying Dawn's coffee as well as his own tea. She thought it made him feel better.

Sipping their drinks, they stood for a moment. "Didn't you want to go by the Watcher site and check on... stuff before we picked up Dawn?" she said.

"'Want to'? Not exactly. But since you've, er, hidden us –" he smiled down at her– "a bit of reconnaissance wouldn't hurt."

"Let's go then," she said, nudging him companionably.

Caught off balance, he had to juggle the drinks, which made him shoot her an old-school library look that warmed her. But the warmth faded the closer they got to the old Watchers place.

She could feel it here. It might be a normal day on the surface, traffic and hurrying pedestrians, noise and orderly chaos, but all around them rose uncanny pressure. She could sense pain and loss, the fraying edges of the fabric that kept selves and worlds apart.

He stopped half a block away from the old Council site, pulling her into the shadows. " Geez, over-cautious much? Even if the Yeangelt baddies are there, they can't see us, Giles. My spell, remember ?" She didn't say it, though, but sent it into his mind.

 _You *are* feeling better after your Tor House stay_ , he thought back dryly, even as he sipped at his tea. When she listened like this, his thought appeared in her mind as if etched in the clearest script. _No harm in being careful, however_.

Shrugging, she followed his gaze toward the site. It looked normal enough, with its chain barrier around the empty land, posted with keep-out and Pennyworth Consortium signs. No sign of demons, but a circle of pickets in the centre imitated the fence outside –

 _That's new. Must be the site for the magicks, right over the Council cellars. I'll tell Xander, make sure he gets Spike and Faith there through the old central tunnel_ , Giles sent to her. Then he looked down, turning his cup in his hands and thinking something she couldn't read.

 _Are you able to block stuff from me now?_ she thought back.

A raise of the eyebrows and a half-smile. "Time to fetch Dawn," he said out loud.

He took them through a side-passage she wouldn't have known was there, a long thin shadow between buildings. It made Willow think of Judith Cary and Henry Giles back in 1665; when she'd read the transcription Giles had faxed her, she had tried to envision that moment, a Slayer and a Watcher on patrol in plague-filled, moonlit streets. It made her miss Buffy even more than usual. Weird how it wasn't his Slayer whom Giles led through the maze.

But maybe the world couldn't be protected by just a Slayer and a Watcher any more. Too many Slayers, too much broken–

Her thoughts faded as Giles brought them out of the passage near Bloomsbury Square, into what would count for sun. Tossing his cup into a trash container, he said, "We should be all right now. Although really, with your skills – you've gotten much stronger in your latest visit to the coven, Willow. You feel, er, centred?"

"Yes, I really do. It's a healing place." She smiled up at him. "It's like the only place I really feel like home, you know? With Margaret fussing over me, and Siobhan, and Michael to work with signs, and then Miss Harkness, I mean, Gillian–"

"I'm glad." He returned her smile. "Are you thinking of joining them permanently?"

"Yeah, wouldn't you love that. More Scoobies underfoot in England, just what you don't want." She stopped at a corner, the stoplight blinking red.

"That's bloody nonsense. But, actually, Xander said something like that a few weeks ago. What have I done to make you two think I wouldn't welcome you?" When she stared at him, he said, "All right, perhaps I've not quite, er.... But it truly would please me to have you all close."

"Really? But there's that whole bolting-away-from-the-Scoobies theme you've been playing for years. And now there's the Anya thing."

"I'm sorry– but what about my wife?" His voice was sharper than she thought he intended; he looked away almost at once. "Light's changed," he said, taking a step off the kerb.

"See there, you're bolting again," she began, but caught herself. Pressure underneath had made her say what she didn't mean. "No, hang on, hang on. Giles –"

"My apologies." He wore one of those Giles expressions she never knew how to deal with, anger and disappointment flaring out behind his reserve, and she couldn't think herself into his head this time. "I didn't mean to."

"Come on, we can't stand here in the middle of the road." She dragged them both to safety in Bloomsbury Square before she said, "No, it was just... And the Anya thing's just that you have someone else to look out for. We get that you don't have time for us now. The same time, I mean."

"I'm sorry you all feel that way," he said quietly, with a complete lack of comprehension of what she was trying to express. For the first time she understood why Anya was always smacking him.

Before she could figure out the right way to put it, the square was brightened by a flash of red jacket and long brown hair. "Hey, you guys! You're late."

"Sorry, Dawn," Giles said. He handed her the coffee he'd carried all the way from the café. "I think we remembered what you took. And how was your history exam?"

"I am totally an alpha-plus star, go me." After a sip, she said, "Mmm, just right, thanks. So are we going or what?"

"We're going," he said, striding off in the direction of the Holborn tube station.

As they followed, Dawn whispered, "Did something freak him about the mission? He's working a nasty slammed-door face."

"No. I might have accidentally said something, um, about his leaving Scoobies behind. And there was a misunderstanding about Anya – or something."

Dawn scowled. "Oh _great_. Here I'm trying to get him back in the Council, and you're bringing up ancient history that makes him all light-sabered to the heart and 'I'm a bad Watcher'? And on the day of an op when he and Anya have the hardest jobs?"

"No, that's not what–"

"Yeah, whatever. We've got work to do." Dawn ran up to Giles and put her arm through his. The wind carried back her asking him a quick question about the Henry Giles notes, Giles saying something about the river.

"C'mon, wait!" When they looked over their shoulders in one synchronised move, Willow felt a little shudder, like her window on the world had cracked. But she hurried to catch up, linking her arm through his other one. "Don't leave me behind. Can't do this alone, you know."

"I'm sorry, and I do know," he said. But his slammed-door expression remained.

The three of them stayed linked until they got to the Tube station, and even as they caught the Piccadilly line to Leicester Square and then changed for the line to the Embankment, pushing their way through the crowds and standing in the full cars, she kept both Dawn and Giles within touching distance. She wasn't doing great with words today, she thought, so she'd rely on actions.

When they walked out on the Embankment, they were bathed in the shimmering grey reflection off the river. Willow exhaled, long and slow. She could feel old magicks flowing past, rising up, but first– "Dawnie, the spell."

"Oh, right," Dawn said, pulling a handful of powder out of her jacket pocket and speaking the right words under her breath. A haze rose around her like water; this wasn't about making themselves invisible, but making them unnoticed.

The three of them crossed over to the Thames side, then walked quickly to the nearest pier. The gate was secured – no taxi service today – but after a quick look around, Giles took a small silver pin out of his coat pocket. "You saw nothing, you say nothing," he muttered to them as he fiddled with the lock, which was silly because Dawn and Andrew already had told everyone in and out of the Council about his breaking-and-entering skills. It took only a few turns of the pin before the gate swung open.

Behind them traffic snarled its way along the Embankment, shouts and laughter lifting above engine growls; in front of them, the pier rose and fell with the dark grey, littered tide.

As they walked down the ramp, Willow pulled six glass jars from her backpack, handing two to Giles and two more to Dawn. Then the three of them bent down by the side of the pier, their motions mirroring each other, and dipped their jars in the water. Willow whispered for all of them, "Mother River flowing to the sea, let us take so we may save you."

The water they caught in their vessels was pure, and she smiled at herself in the glass.

***

Even as Anya lit the last candle in the Giles and Jenkins conference room, tiny lights flickering over the walls of books and the shuttered windows, she kept her eye on the apportioning of the water vessels. The river water had been divided and divided again, but still – "Don't forget we need one too."

"I know. Giles kept one of his jars," Willow said, with the barest roll of her eyes.

Then Willow gave one filled glass to Randolph, who said, "A lovely thing this, darling," before she passed another to Catriona. These three would be working from this room tonight, the table already laid with their mirrors and smoky with their incense. They were even dressed alike, dramatically attired in purples and gold – although Anya couldn't believe that Willow had found another hideously fuzzy sweater somewhere in the world, and apparently on purpose. It might be kind to take her shopping at Selfridges tomorrow and point her toward more flattering apparel.

Assuming they made it to tomorrow, of course.

Pressing her hand against her stomach to subdue the nerves, she said briskly. "Do you need me to do anything else?"

"No, I think we're prepared. A little deep breathing, a little swirl of the Thames water, and we'll be watching you." Catriona tossed her hair and gave a teasing sorceress smile. "Still – will I be allowed to kiss your husband before you leave this time, Anya?"

"No." She didn't feel that required elaboration. With one last smile for Randolph and a pat on Willow's back, she said, "Okay, I'll send in Andrew to get the extra vials for the other teams."

It was a surprise when Willow threw her arms around her, hugging tight. "You know that I think you and Giles are great together, don't you?" she whispered. "And you guys can do this, I know you can."

Even as she hugged back, Anya's eyes narrowed. When Rupert had come back from his expedition with the young women, he had been upset – giving her a rough, swift kiss hello and a clenched-jaw 'I'm fine' which indicated the opposite, before he'd grabbed Xander and Tom Quinn and dragged them out to get pizza for the troops. His distress was probably Willow's fault, judging by this act of contrition. Still, this wasn't the time to berate her. "Thank you, Willow, we rely on your power. So please don't go dark in the process and destroy _this_ business."

With a laugh, Willow let go. "Anya, you never change."

On a impulse, she kissed Willow's cheek. "No, I do, and you do too. Different, better choices."

In the doorway to the outer office she ran into Tom Quinn, who stood there with bent head, studying one of the briefing folders. "Sorry, Anya," he said without looking up.

"How are you feeling, Tom? Espionage-ready? Able to remember who you are and everything?" she said, with an unprofessional rub on his back. She worried about him, she really did, despite slight lingering resentment about cellars and honeymoons and his interruption of lovely spousal renditions of Joni Mitchell songs.

"Fine," he said, somewhat remote. "We'll get you through this."

"That's right, Tuppence." Zoe was sitting at Anya's desk, eating a slice of pizza and making notations on the briefing file, but she looked over and smiled. "Tom and I are ready to be your backup, should the, um, magick surveillance tell us you're in trouble."

"Yep! Andrew and I can run op stuff if they take off – but they won't have to. You guys will be fine," Dawn said through a mouthful of pizza, from her perch beside Zoe.

"Thanks, sweeties. I appreciate your inadequate words of comfort." As she spoke, she scanned the office, looking for Rupert. No husband in sight, but Andrew was talking about tunnel issues to Xander, who was book-ended by Faith and Spike lounging on the client couch.

That seating arrangement was a surprise. The semi-crushed autumn bouquet hadn't appeared to melt Faith that morning; when Xander had nervously presented the flowers at breakfast, she'd just looked at them and then crunched down on some bacon with sharp Slayer teeth. They hadn't really spoken after that, which was uncomfortable, and he'd let Faith ride in the front seat with Anya on the way to the office. Of course he also was occupied in the backseat, holding a blanket over Spike to reduce inflammability issues (despite the window-tinting that she and Rupert had just got for that purpose). It could be difficult to juggle business and relationships, Anya thought.

She looked again. Yes, there was Xander's hand sneaking out to touch Faith's leg, in a move she identified disinterestedly as a Xander-girlfriend-habit. But she had important work to do and her man to track down: "Andrew, could you get the water for the blessing of the protection for the Council team? Also, where's my husband?"

"At once, mon capitaine," Andrew said, hurrying toward the conference room. "And Giles is across the hall."

"Meditating in the new space," Dawn clarified. "'Cause you still need the thing, don't you?"

"Thanks. And yes, Dawn, I need the thing." As she headed out of the main office and crossed to their new Inventory and File room, she absently rubbed her arms as if to wash away her nerves.

When she walked into the darkened room, however, she shook her head. Rupert sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of a circle of lit candles – though he'd left plenty of room for her – and rather than meditating, he was reading Henry Giles's journal for the hundredth time. "Hello, Tuppence," he said, not looking up from the book.

"Don't you know that by heart, Tommy?" She closed the door behind her.

"A quick review. I rather wish Martin would have stolen more than just the one volume, though." He put the book outside the circle of candles, next to a plate heaped with blue powder, next to their coats and backpacks and his sword. "Everything going well out there?"

"Everything's under control." She stepped over the candles and took her place, folding her legs underneath her in a mirror-pose to his, their knees touching. "The protection-bracelets are ready to be dipped – but I'll let Willow and Catriona supervise that. We're still waiting for Wes and Jools, too, and then we can go."

"And you need your mark." His smile was so sweet, if tense around the edges. With a flourish he produced a Magic Marker from behind his back, saying, "It's a bit ironic that you've rubbished my drawing for years, but now–"

She pulled a face at him. "Yes, haha irony. But I guess it's lucky that Tom's breakdown meant we didn't get our tattoo-work at the coven. This will be better, if you can manage to follow an actual pattern."

He caught her arm in one hand, pushing up her sweater sleeve, fingertips caressing as they slid over her skin. When her biceps muscle was exposed, he bent and touched his lips to it – and she felt a rush of something powerful along her arm and into her heart, a connection that shouldn't feel so new. She whispered, "Whatever _have_ you been doing today?"

"Working. Thinking. Thinking about you." He dipped his free hand onto the plate, bringing up fingertips coated with the powder she'd concocted the day before. Lightly he dusted blue against her skin in the pattern he would trace with the ink. With each touch of his fingers, she could feel old strengths, old skills rush to the surface. "All right?" he asked quietly.

"All right. Go ahead, honey." She bent her head to watch as he ran the marker over her skin, following the powder line. He drew a sigil she'd known for eleven hundred years, yet with a difference: Anyanka recalled, but with the love and connections that now defined her. Even with his significant artistic handicaps, the sign of Arashmaharr was clear.

When he was done, she took his arm in her hand and rolled up his sleeve to show the mark of Eyghon. It was still faded, although the various needle-stabs of the past months had left a permanent red spot at the bottom of the tattoo. With the powder she dusted the outline of the mark – chaos, but with the love and connections that now defined him. "All right?" she asked, and he nodded.

Then, without speaking, they sent their still coated fingers through candle flame. The fire didn't hurt them, even as the powder was set alight, flaring blue in the dark.

"I think we're good," she said, blowing out the sparks on her fingers.

"Quite good." He leaned forward, putting his hands on her thighs. "Stay there, dearest–" And his mouth found hers, in a kiss that went on for a long, long time, enough for every name they'd ever had and for every life they'd ever lived.

She was so deep in love that she almost missed the door opening behind her and Jools Siviter's drawled "Ah. They're 'working,' you say? An interesting interpretation of the concept."

"Oh, sod off, Jools," Rupert said. Still, it really was time to get back on task.

After they snuffed the candles out and picked up their materials and coats, they headed into the hall. Everyone was there by now, with Wes nearest, all haggard and stubbly. She caught his arm, whispering, "You look a little crazier today. Are you all right?"

It alarmed her that he gave her a one-armed, desperate hug, even though his voice was chilly and even. "Fine. Not to worry."

"Wesley, I _am_ going to worry – or I will after the apocalypse is averted. Show me your protection." When he lifted his wrist, the river-damp, woven links of red and blue thread glimmered. "Good. But seriously, you be careful."

"I will, Anya," he said, his voice softening, before he reached a hand out to grasp Rupert's shoulder. "Success and safety, Giles."

"Success and safety," he echoed. But as Wes moved away to say something to Spike, Rupert got Jools's arm, saying under his breath but loud enough for her to hear, "You bloody told him _today_?"

"Don't touch the gents' casual suiting, please." Jools brushed off Rupert's grasp. "And we can have a jolly talk about good timing after the threat's averted." More loudly he said, "God luck to all – now are you ready, son?"

" _Son_?" Spike and Faith said in unison, with Faith continuing, "Oh Christ, pal, and I was just fucking with you last night–"

"I trust that's an expression," Xander said.

"Never mind. Spike, Faith, be safe. I'll need to organise you lot when I get back, after all," Wes said. "See you later." After favouring Xander with a glare, he headed out the door to the outside. Smiling with equal nastiness, Jools sauntered off, letting the door shut with a bang behind him.

"Inherited cold-hearted bastard behaviour, or bloody delusions of Watcher grandeur? You be the judge," Spike said, shoving his hands in his duster pockets.

"Yeah, well...like the man said, never mind. Can we get going?" Xander said. "There's the world to save and everything, and if we hurry, Dawn might even leave us some pizza."

"Hey!" came from inside the main office, and Andrew and Dawn poked their heads out. They looked so young, Anya thought with a strange feeling she tentatively identified as maternal. It was better that they stay here, watch and learn. Their time would come soon enough.

Tom and Zoe looked out too, inspected the troops, waved, and then retreated into the office, even as Dawn said, "You guys be cool. But the magick people are almost in the zone, so –"

"Yeah, we're going, Bit." At Spike's words, Dawn rolled her eyes. He put his hand up as if to pet her hair, then thought better of it and twitched his duster closer to his body. "Once more into the breach, right?" As he went out the door, he intoned, "'Four great gates has the city of Damascus...Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear–'" His voice echoed and faded in the stairwell as he descended.

"Poetry? Spike's a _poetry_ geek?" Xander said. "This has made my life, I can't begin to tell you. Or I'll tell you at great length after we win." After a peck on Anya's cheek and a smile for Rupert, he grabbed Faith's hand and began to pull her toward the door.

"You three take care," Anya said sharply. "Tell Spike, too."

"Yes, and you're the Slayer, Faith, so you're responsible for those prats," Rupert said.

"You got it, Gileses." Faith's grin was the last thing visible as she and Xander disappeared down the stairs–

Which left the core Investigations and Acquisitions team alone, caught in a current of chanting and incense flowing from inside the office. Anya looked at Dawn and Andrew, let herself feel all the caring she usually didn't think about, and then said, "All right, junior Watchers. You keep everyone here on task – it's your sworn Giles and Jenkins duty."

"You got it. You can trust us," Andrew said, with the merest quaver in his voice.

Rupert said, "We do."

Dawn burst through the doorway past Andrew and threw her arms around the two of them, holding on for a long breath, before she stepped back. "That's our Watcher and our Anya. Now go already!"

"Right then, darling. Let's do as Dawn says."

As they left, Anya felt the nerves boil up one last time, terror rising to her throat. But then he reached across to tap his wedding ring against hers, gold chinking against gold. He didn't even need to say anything — her nerves retreated.

She was the first one out into the afternoon. She believed in being punctual for work.

***

Three hourglasses, lit by black candles, lay on the table in the Mysterious Emporium's private space. The Lady Yeangelt bowed her head over them for a moment, feeling the gust of time over her body as if it were blowing her home. After all those centuries, trapped and in hiding, longing for the balance to shift, her wait was over.

Smiling, she turned to her followers. Her Pennith and her Griffin were closest, as was only right; Master Hat with his most faithful assistants, Garrison and Bixp, behind them; a dozen minions, unimportant in themselves but useful for the moment. "Are we ready for the Rising Time?"

Although the minions cheered, her closest ones smiled. They knew what this moment meant.

To Master Hat she went first. Pulling a silk square out of her sleeve, she revealed her sigil for the last time to him and the others. "Strike at the right time, Master," she said quietly. "And take this in remembrance of me. I know that you will stay to guard the Terminal when it is done. The human interlopers and the half-breeds will be gone, and you shall let all others pass."

"Yes, in your name." He took the silk, then bowed low one last time.

To Griffin she went next. Concentrating, she kissed him on his cheek, at the intersection of two old tattoos – underneath her lips the marks fused into her sigil as if stitched. "My mark on you, Griffin, is more lasting than silk. And you'll find us when it's done?"

"Anything for you, my lady. I couldn't stay away." Her own demon, created for travelling, smiled down at her

"My Pennith, come with me." The two of them, together as they always should be, paced to the table. Without words they took hold of the hourglasses, in the same breath stood them up. That which was not sand began to pour through the glass funnels, shining acid-green in the candlelight.

"Master Hat, my Griffin, come take your timepieces," she said over her shoulder. "When the magick has run its course, we open the gates."

***

When Faith pressed a knob, the shelving unit in the bookshop's private space slid away to reveal the trap door. Over the hum of the security lights, she said, "There we go, guys."

"That's so Batman," Xander said, peering over her shoulder, his hands on her waist. "But, curses, no bat-pole. Just a ladder."

She let herself sink back into his hold for just one betraying moment, feel him solid behind her. No sharpness, no cuts. She figured she could allow herself one breath of security even if it was a lie, him disappearing on her like that and then popping back up all Xander-in-the-box with that cute puppy look, but– "Hell, thought you knew where we were going. Got work to do, man."

His fingers sliding under her sweater to play for just a second, he said, "A little more respect for your Facilities Administrator, please. I do know the way. Cast off, yo-ho, it's a navigator's life for me." There was the fleeting caress of a eyepatch against her cheek before he let her go and began to climb down. She watched him descend into the dark alone.

Spike said from behind her, "Well, stop mooning and go. Slayers first, yeah?"

She shot him a look: "Always gonna be that order with you, huh?" When the lines of his face shifted into pain, though, she said, "Dude, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to bring up B or nothing."

"No worries. Just go, pet." He managed a smile, right before his boot came up to make hard contact with her ass. She almost fucking toppled down the ladder, to the accompaniment of his laughing, "That's _one_ way to get a lazy Slayer moving."

The cellar below the storage space was pitch, but Xander already had his flashlight out. In the spin of the light the space looked empty, a long narrow box with crumbling concrete walls and floor. "Where the hell are we?" she said, dusting off her jeans.

"Bomb shelter. Built in World War II during the Blitz," Xander said. "The Watchers' Council had several escape routes linked to shelters. Robson remembered them, Amelia Markby knew more, and then I did a little digging – not literally."

Spike landed softly next to them. "Right. War-vintage construction – I remember it well. Never could get the smells out. Everything hangs on for-bloody-ever."

"You were in London for the war?" Xander said.

"Part of it, not all." Spike seemed to be looking at something ugly in his mind's eyes, Faith thought, something that hurt him as much as saying B's name. But then he shook off the demon – hell, he probably _was_ the damn demon – and said, "Where to now, Harris?"

"Right. Yeah. It should be–" he trained his flashlight on the far wall – "there."

"What? Can't see it." She came up behind him, mimicking his posture from upstairs, so she could look too. Too distracting, though: he was comfort like her favourite T-shirt, the one washed until it hugged her in all the right ways, and Slayers like her didn't get comfort.

"It's a door," he said kind of huskily, the way he would right before when she'd strip him down and start to ride. "There – um, Faith, before we go any further, can I just say that we're not on a break any more?"

She pushed him away. "Excuse me, pal. Mission first, remember? Besides that I don't think you get to fucking choose."

"I said we were on the break, so why can't I call it over?" His free hand covered hers. "Please, Faith."

Okay, that was sweet and shit, but no. "Because you can't. Asshole."

"Come on," he began –

"And we're done." A strong vampire grip got her jacket, then caught Xander. Although a stake could have been in her hand before Spike could have said 'bloody hell,' she forced herself to be still. He continued, "I reckon I'm damned for eternity, but not even the Powers on their worst day are going to trap me in a sodding bunker with Ross and Rachel. Work, people, or London's going on permanent break."

Shrugging off Spike's hold, she went blind toward the wall. "You're right, Blondie. Now where the hell is the exit?"

"Here," Xander said. He brushed by her, then touched what just looked like black on black to her. With one sharp move he cracked a door open, dust flying everywhere in the dark, hurting her throat.

As he played the light over the darkness, he caught her hand again. "Okay, you're right. Come on. This is just the first tunnel – we've still got a ways to go yet until the fork." And as he took the first step beyond the threshold, he whispered, "We're back together, sweetheart. Take it how you want."

"Asshole," she said again, but her fingers gripped his harder as they went into the black. Ahead of them was the distant sound of breaking glass.

***

Jools waved the MI6 vehicle away, then stepped back to survey the site. He and Wesley had been dropped off here in Brixton, just across the road from the fenced, broken shell of The Frontier. Chain-link separated the club's space from the equally burned remains of the Parrot's Tongue on the Minton land. Cracked concrete and fallen beams, scorched in places, and a roof open to the darkening sky – "Ah, I'm reminded of those glory days of my Moscow posting. Much the same delightful architectural quality."

Wesley just stared coldly at him. Apparently his son wasn't much of a one for irony. Or talking, actually, since only five or six words had been exchanged on the drive from Islington. But then he said, "I'd like to suggest once more that we split up. I can go through the shell of Hartman's tattoo shop, and you could–"

"No," Jools said, bored with the discussion. "We're going through the Frontier. The specs are clearer there, and the op has a greater likelihood of success, which I believe you know."

"Then let's proceed with the 'op.'" Irony in his son's voice there, at least. After waiting for a couple of disreputable cars to pass, he crossed the street between lengthening shadows. The witch's cloaking spell seemed effective enough.

Jools followed more slowly. Although he still was field-rated, it had been a good few years since he'd crept about in the statutory cloak-and-dagger manner. He had the key to the gate, though, so Wes was forced to wait for him to unlock it before slipping inside. Once in, they stopped at the right corner of the smoke-damaged club building and took time to breathe.

And he took time to inspect his boy. Wes was calmly checking his gear, professional like the sort of fellow that Jools preferred to work with. Part of that ease might be the impressive range of weaponry they'd filched from Roger Wyndam-Pryce's private demon-wetwork collection, but more likely it was the last few years that had given Wes his edge.

Of course Jools had known this already. He'd followed Wesley's career from the moment of his birth – there were files in a lock-box which detailed young Wesley's first step and word ("babbit," referring to a stuffed animal vaguely resembling a bear), his first school marks, his complete incompetence at games until he'd begun to practice archery and shooting, his time as head boy at the Watcher's Academy, his Oxford First, his embarrassments at informal dances and deb balls. In addition to information gathered through espionage channels, Jools had taken copious notes during those precious annual phone calls from Elinor. He'd once called her from a safe house in Leningrad, on a spy-satellite link dedicated to military secrets, so he could hear of Wesley's exploits at a special Watcher's camp.

It wasn't until after Roger died that Elinor told him what the normal channels had missed – that the official father had blasted and belittled his false son just one step short of abuse, no matter what she'd done to shield him; that Wesley's flight into independent-operator status and thence to collusion with that damned (literally) Angel was in no small part down to Roger Wyndam-Pryce.

She'd waited until the bastard was dead, of course, because she knew that otherwise Jools would have executed him himself.

Wes stepped almost free of the shadows, his hand going to the protection-bracelet around his wrist. Even in the dimness the thing glimmered, the blessed water from the Thames keeping it damp, keeping it powerful. Witch had done a good job there, too; Rupert Giles had made the right connections for the task.

It was Rupert who in the past days had also filled in some of what Jools had wanted to know about Angel – told him a little about the vampire's soul-curse but more about the annealing process that Angel Investigations had put Wes through, the apocalypses and the betrayals and the way his boy had kept going until he was tempered glass. It was Anya, however, who'd mentioned something about a dead woman whom Wesley had loved and lost but who didn't seem to want to leave.

Jools would have to find out more about that. But after the mission.

He touched Wesley's arm and inclined his head. Reading the signal correctly, Wes unholstered his specially modified pistol and slid around the corner. Jools mirrored the action, following on his heels and watching.

The passage between burnt-out building and emptiness was dark, like a hell-road to nowhere, and the chain-link fences rattled in the wind. Good cover for the sound of footsteps, of course. The two were halfway down the path when Wes put his hand on Jools's chest to stop him.

One glance revealed two demons standing at the point where the Frontier back door had been. "Back up and try the tattoo place?" Wes whispered.

Jools shook his head: better to forge ahead here, where they had more information. However, he shouldered past Wesley and took the lead. Father's duty and all that.

The demons – one large, multi-horned, ugly; the other smaller, speckled, uglier– were restless and not paying much attention to their bloody jobs. Reminded Jools of all too many guards he'd seen on his various travels. "Take the big one," he whispered over his shoulder, even as he drew his own pistol and fired at the smaller target. No sound – the silencer did its work.

His demon dropped only a couple of seconds before Wesley's did. Both had been plugged neatly between the eyes.

Only good policy to drag the demons further into the shadows, of course. Wes was first to the bodies, getting the big one and rolling it to the wall. Jools did the same, but then bent down to check. His was dead, but Wesley's target was still twitching – could be an involuntary muscle reaction post-death, but no use taking chances. Jools put his pistol to the demon's head and blew the top of it off.

Unfortunately, the result was acid-blood splattering all over his John Lobb shoes. Fuck. He suddenly remembered why he so disliked field ops.

At a touch on his shoulder, he looked up. Wes stood over him, a hint of a smile on his lips. "Come on." Then, a hesitation, before he said, "Jools." First time he'd called him by his name.

Despite his ruined shoes, Jools was smiling as he followed his son into the blackness of the open door.

***

Dawn hovered between Tom and Zoe in the doorway to the conference room, peering in at the magick-users. Randolph and Catriona sat at the table, one of the vision instruments in front of him, two in front of her. The silver had been spread with Thames water, which in the candlelight waved in patterns she couldn't read, and the broken lines on the edges of each mirror glowed blue.

Willow sat on the table in a circle of light – her own light, not shared by the Mortimers, not given solely by candles – her eyes closed, her head tilted as if she were listening to music no one else could hear. She didn't look like familiar, sort of goofy Willow any more, but like a woman who carried magick in her hands and her swaying body. Whenever she moved, the incense burned more strongly.

"Two demons down in Brixton. Siviter and Wesley are in darkness now, in the passage," Catriona said. She passed her hand over the centre mirror, but said nothing. Saw nothing, maybe.

Randolph bent forward to look at his mirror, long hair draping his face. "The Council team is in darkness now too, seeking the right way. Not as far as they might be, but they move forward."

Tom looked at his watch. Dawn could read the numbers from here: despite slippages, everyone was making good time. Everybody moving forward, she thought. She didn't know why she shivered, like thousands of scissors were snipping the fabric that lay next to her skin, blade-edges biting at her with cold. She didn't hurt, though.

A hand on her back eased her tremors for a minute: Andrew, returning from his errand. He put his mouth to her ear and whispered, "I called Mrs Rajan. Anni walked the dogs and gave them their dinner as arranged."

"Good deal," she whispered back. She and Andrew had learned a lot from Anya, Dawn thought. Sometimes the devil lurked in the small details of connection, and you had to take care of them too.

With her own nervous twitch, Zoe asked the magick guys, "Do you see Anya and Giles?"

"No. Something's interfering –" Catriona said, hand passing over the centre mirror again.

" _I_ can see them." Willow's voice was a deep hum of power. "They're moving forward."

Dawn startled. From one breath to the next, it was like the scissors had dug into her skin and started to slice.

***

Almost there. Giles took a deep breath and then wished he hadn't. The alley outside Madame Sangre's smelled worse this evening, as if corpses were decaying behind the walls on every side. He assumed it wasn't any sort of sign. After all, if Yeangelt ripped apart the city, not many human remains would be left to rot. London would be nothingness.

At the mental image, his mark began to burn. He could feel the chaos simmering now, but the magick Anya had used and the magick that she was kept it under control.

Looking around at the shadows, she put her hand over her nose. "Hurry, honey, this place is ripe. Worse than any massacre I've ever attended."

Once again he worked with his lockpick, spoke the counter to the wards, and opened the disguised door for her. They stepped inside the room, but this time it wasn't dark.

Pale in uneven lantern-light, two half-dressed bodies in a corona of dust and moans writhed on the room's bed. Not the vampire-brothel normal activity, but – "Oh for fuck's sake."

The male and female vamps looked up. Young, weak ones, it seemed; game-face gleamed almost as yellow as the fangs. "Oh, snacks!" the female said, snapping off the bed and onto her feet. Her dress hung open to her waist.

"No, cupcake, we have to set terms. But how wonderful these visitors smell!" the male said, scrambling up after her, almost tripping on his loose trousers. He snaked his hand around the other vamp's waist and grinned. "You two here to pay for a little pleasure, I reckon?"

"Oh, please. Vamp-prostitutes? I don't think so." Anya said. "If you'd just move aside –"

"You don't want to pay us to taste your life? But that's why humans come to Madame Sangre's."

When the female took a step forward, Giles unobtrusively slid his left hand into his jacket pocket. He said pleasantly, "Not always. There's a door behind you, and we need to pass."

"Oh, but that would be a waste. That's not–" The vamp's words cut off as she rushed toward them.

But he'd expected the attack. His handful of crushed laceprig powder went into the vamp's eyes. It was enough to stun, and the creature fell, still game-faced. Easier to stake that way.

Anya's handful went in the male vamp's eyes a few seconds later. He staggered, saying, "What the–" before Giles's stake sent him to join the dust.

Giles's hands tingled, and not from the crushed laceprigs. The adrenaline produced by the short encounter had raised more chaos, with violence licking through his veins. But Anya had already stepped over the fresh dust and was at the tunnel door. As she reached into her backpack for the torch: "All right, honey."

"Right." Catching up, he pried open the door; he had to be careful, though, work around the soreness and the ache of what he had and hadn't done.

Her light flashed out, blinding him for a heartbeat, before it illuminated the tunnel to Nalph's. Seemed familiar, one tunnel looking like any other: dry earthen walls and wooden floor, stretching into black.

The odour, however, was new. Worse than outside, like a street full of lost plague victims – "Too much already," she said under her breath.

They had taken only a few steps inside when his boot crunched on the first bone. Her hand caught his, interlacing their fingers, but neither one of them spoke. Memories to live down.

The further they went, the more anonymous demons' bodies they passed. Must have been a sodding busy night once the sleepers had been awakened. He could smell the bitter almond of Pennith mixed with the blood. His backpack weighed more with every step, and the burdens he and Anya carried began to hum.

It couldn't have been as dark as this on the night Henry Giles and Judith Cary had come down the Thames, he thought; his mind's eye showed him the pale drowned faces and the moon shining off a Slayer's sword as they passed familiar landmarks, neared the shore. His Watcher predecessor had made it over the water to the steps. But he'd run from being a Watcher, he reminded himself; the Slayer he'd failed to watch over was somewhere in Mexico with her own charges, and the connections he'd made as Robert Gordon and James Sedgwick were broken. The connections he'd made as Giles the librarian were strained, too; he thought of Willow's words, the way she also had accused him of not caring. Not the equal of Henry Giles, then.

When Anya's fingers tightened on his, however, he also remembered that Henry Giles had died alone. Rupert Giles had new connections and a treasure to protect, and so he would. "Anya," he murmured in the darkness.

"Rupert," she whispered back. It was enough to say each other's names, and they went further into the tunnel.

The wooden door to the Mysterious Emporium, a match to the one in Madame Sangre's, loomed ahead of them, but the torch showed a body heaped against the door. Familiar, somehow –

"That's Pim! Oh, they got Pim too. The earth-demon I told you about." She bent down and shone the light on the battered body, its head dangling at an unnatural angle. "I never wanted him, you know, and he was a demon. Not a good guy. But... but he really wasn't dangerous. He didn't deserve this."

When she looked up at him, he could see the vengeance trace itself under her skin. He kissed her, sharing what she felt, before he said, "Come on, darling."

They broke through the door on the first try, frightening the three Contar demons left standing guard in the shop's private space. Before the sentries could make more than muffled cries, he took out the first with the sword he'd concealed under his coat, slicing through its scales to get to the heart. She threw another handful of crushed laceprig at the second, then pulled a dagger on it when it fell.

The third demon lunged for the door to the outside passage – but Giles caught him and threw him against the wall. When it tried to get up, Giles used his sword again, although this time he wasn't so careful about where he aimed.

The curtain of Ihioo babies's skulls chattered in warning, but no one except them was left to hear.

As she put away her dagger, she whispered, "Where's Nalph? Wasn't he supposed to be here, helping?"

"Can't worry about that. We need to finish."

Kneeling, they put their packs together, then opened them at the same time. The broken Cup, one part his burden and the other hers. stopped humming at the touch of the light. Anya carefully took the vial of Thames water and anointed their hands, like clear water-kisses along the palms and fingers, before pouring the rest into each golden half. Next he reached for the blue elemental powder. Though this time the magick dissolved in the water, they could feel it in their hands, feel it in each depression of the halved Cup.

Without speaking they got up with their burdens and went to the last door. Unlocked, it opened with a touch of Anya's hand.

The wind of lost souls and spirits struck them as soon as they stepped outside. Yeangelt – the woman he'd seen in Body Frontiers, he realised – and Pennith stood inside a circle of shattered glass, on the spot where they had first fallen into this dimension centuries ago. Behind them was a cart still half-full of glass containers, obscuring what looked like a dead boium tree against the brick and stone. An hourglass, almost out, rested on the cart's edge.

Even as Giles and Anya went outside, Pennith raised another glass and dashed it to the ground. On impact the wind heightened, its keening sharp like a scissors blade drawn against silk. Another soul lost, another weakening in dimensional walls.

But after the glass shattered, both Yeangelt and Pennith looked up. "The Beresfords," Pennith said with a hiss.

"These Beresfords are the creatures who hurt you, my Pennith?" She took a step to the edge of the circle, her hands lifting, tying a knot in the air. Giles could feel a slight, distant rope-tug at his neck, feel Anya's flinch. "I have been looking for you everywhere, humans."

"Well, no wonder you didn't find us, because those aren't actually our names," Anya said briskly.

Another glass fell at the other end of the cart; its wheels moved, scraping a few inches against stone while the wind howled louder. The hourglass rocked on its base. Then a broken but familiar voice came from behind the cart, croaking, "What is the password?"

With a rush of what felt like relief, Giles said, "Nalph, there is no password."

The rope-tug on his neck eased when Yeangelt whirled around. "You are more traitorous than we knew, Mikh-creature–"

But at that moment Anya said "Now," and Giles clasped her hand, the connection far stronger than any thread. In the teeth of the wind they brought the broken Cup together in front of them.

The dimensional fabric tore.


	4. Chapter 4

From the river came a strange mist, twisting like a thousand thousand chain-links in which pale dead faces rose. Above the river the clouds streamed apart, but what lay behind them didn't look like evening sky.

Demons crept from their hidden bars and shops, from holes in the earth and nests in old buildings, and looked up. Some grappled with their fellows, sharing guttural laughs at the signs written in the torn clouds. The Terminal would be opening, they said to each other, good times and plenty were on their way.

But others, the half-breeds and the vampires and the ones who didn't believe in Yeangelt's promise, didn't laugh. They looked to the sky for another message, since they knew that what some called the Rising Time was also the day of the dead.

Their dead.

The human standing on the Millbank side of Thames House, also watching the river and the clouds, could feel the changes coming. Although he'd been enmeshed in a meeting about a terrorism threat Danny and the rest of Section A was working in Dover, he'd also kept an eye on his watch – thinking about that other team on an op tonight, thinking about the ways he hadn't been able to help them. When his watch had flashed red, he'd excused himself and gone outside. He let himself see.

Suddenly, furiously, Harry Pearce dug in his jacket for his work mobile.

***

"Bring them together, then tear them apart!" Willow called out, her hands reaching over the candles, her body levitating an inch or two off the conference table.

Tom took a couple of involuntary steps forward before Zoe caught him. "Wait. She's talking to Giles and Anya," she said urgently. "It's the _plan_ , Tom, you know that."

He stared at Zoe. She had changed while he was away; as he'd spent months blind to himself, she'd been learning to see further – and to use that vision to challenge him. For the first time he traced a resemblance in her face to the people of Tor House, but in emotion more than bone, wisdom more than surface. He said, "I'm sorry, Zoe," meaning more than for just this moment.

When he looked back at Willow, she'd come back down. "'Bring them together, then tear them apart'," she repeated. "Yep, they're good. They're doing what they're supposed to." Yet she dipped her fingers nervously into and out of flames as she closed her eyes again.

Bringing himself back to the job, he said, "Fine. What about our other fronts? Catriona, what do you see?"

"The effects of mystically enhanced bullets on demons' bodies." She spoke quietly, with a flutter of fingers over the further mirror, its Thames water shimmering red in the candlelight. The centre one remained dark. "It isn't pretty."

"But effective. The Brixton team is on piste, then." When she nodded, he said, "Good. Randolph?"

Without shifting his gaze from his mirror, Randolph said, "I can't see much in the darkness. The Watcher team has been delayed in the tunnels – almost there, I think, but something's gone wrong."

After a second of thought, Tom said, "That's the closest site. We can be there in three minutes, cause a distraction up top if necessary. Zoe, shall–?" Before he could finish, though, his mobile rang. The display number was clear: Harry, sod him.

Then Andrew's cry stopped them all. "Dawnie! What's wrong?"

"I don't know. Andrew –" Her hands to her face, she was sliding down with her back against the wall as if her legs couldn't hold her. What alarmed Tom more was the faint green glow flickering under her skin; she looked like a vessel for alien fire. Her voice wavered, barely audible over his ringing phone. "Andrew? I think the portal-opening's changing me. Changing me back."

"No, nuh-uh, can't be. You're imagining things." But he dropped to the floor and pulled her into his arms. A trick of reflection made him look green too – and very, very frightened.

Willow said, "Sweetie, don't worry. You're far enough away, you'll be fine."

Dawn didn't answer, but just buried her head in Andrew's chest and hung on. The green was deepening, throwing shadows everywhere in the room.

As he began to rock her, Andrew said desperately, "No, this isn't real. Come on, Dawnie. We Watchers know what's real and what's not."

And Tom's phone kept ringing.

***

When the Cup of Xet came together in a shiver that rippled out through their world, Anya bit her tongue. It was worse than she'd imagined. She could hear Willow faintly in her mind, saying the words that had guided their planning, but then Willow didn't know what it felt like – the vessel transmuting into an conductor of power, into a golden blade. It scraped her and Rupert's hands through the protection they'd applied and the Thames water.

And it fused together. The Cup was whole again, even as the sky and earth began to slip apart. Not a gate yet, not the series of portals Yeangelt wanted, but the start of the unravelling.

Rupert's left hand went to the sword he had sheathed. Time to put the world back together.

But Yeangelt cried out first, "It's _here_ , it has been found, you brought it to me!" Ignoring Nalph and Pennith, she leapt forward to grasp it. As she moved, she yanked her hands apart, as if tying off a knot.

Stumbling, Anya lost her breath.

But Rupert muttered "I have it, darling," and, catching the Cup in a hand already beginning to drip blood, dodged in front of her toward the far wall. She could feel his touch even after he let go.

Yeangelt wasn't able to stop her lunge in time. Once she fell out of the acid-burned circle, she collapsed onto her knees, and her robes tore at the impact of stone. Although a shrill "Give me what's mine!" echoed through the passage, she bowed her head and held onto herself, as if drawing her power in.

Pennith stood indecisive, hands fisted, gaze shifting between his demon-lady and Rupert. "You're a Watcher, aren't you, Beresford?" he said, tongue flicking out to show its fork. "Like the one who first trapped us? I can smell it–"

"Not a Watcher. But very like," Rupert said, still on the move. He was almost to the cart full of glass by now. Anya needed him to be safe there, to get through to Nalph and then–

She needed to do her own job.

Radiating from her temporary mark, the sense-memories of a millennium of battles, skirmishes, and hells strengthened her muscles, even though this human body wasn't the one that had fought or killed. The body wasn't as important as the spirit, as the connection.

Rupert now was almost to Nalph and the boium tree – and to their real object – but Pennith was threatening. She raised her dagger and moved to intercept.

Yet as she did, a clawed hand grabbed onto her ankle, its nails and skin piercing like a thousand burning needles. "Now, creature, explain something to me," Yeangelt said, trying to pull her back. "Your man may be like the Watcher filth I sought and killed after he stayed me in my travels – I shall kill and taste again before I go, just to see – but you're nothing like the Slayer who broke the Cup, nor the superfluity of Slayers that has given me my chance."

"Right, _not_ a Slayer, thank you very much." Despite the pain Anya lifted her other boot and smashed down on Yeangelt's hand. The demon let go with a shriek, and from the demon's broken bones wafted a trace of magick that faded into the wind. Anya said, "But I was vengeance once, and I still remember."

Calling on those memories, she managed to jump into the circle. When she landed, the ankle Yeangelt had caught buckled underneath her – but she reached out to drive her dagger through Pennith's leg, then push him outside the circle to join Yeangelt. The two Xet demons huddled together, broken, hissing as one.

Only then did Anya let herself fall, her hands bruised on the stone. When she looked up into the London sky, she saw more of the world unravelling. The first gate was forming in the void, thanks to the Cup.

"Rupert," she whispered.

Somehow he heard her, despite the howling of the wind of lost souls and spirits. "Cover your head, then come to me," he said. She rolled over, arms over her ears. Still, even with the barrier she could hear breaking glass and feel the rumble of the cart's wheels over stone.

Then she pulled herself to her knees. Despite her hatred of sewing, there was stitching to be done, and a bad seam to tear out.

***

The last demon guard outside the wooden door dropped in a shower of foul-smelling blood. As with the others, the enhanced bullets between the eyes and in the chest had proven highly effective. Jools sent a mental thank-you to Roger Wyndam-Pryce in whatever noxious hell he currently inhabited; the man had been a first-rate shit, but at least his demon-weaponry was sound.

The hole that once had been the Frontier's roof had shown some ugly clouds, looking very like dead souls and spirits rising. Either the Giles team had finished the first half of their appointed task, or this Hartman bastard was further ahead than they thought, or both. Time to find out.

He glanced at Wes. Pale and tight-lipped, his son focussed on their own goal – the wooden door, behind which came the sound of breaking glass. "Shall we, Jools?" he said, finishing his reload and lifting his gun.

"We shall indeed. On my count. Three, two, one –"

After shooting off the lock, they kicked in the door.

Jools took in the scene, gauged it in terms of their plans. Right, a tunnel which sloped downward, but not far away – directly under Minton land – there was what would pass for a room: shelves, wooden walls and floors, lantern light, and an hourglass running down. Two creatures bowed and scraped over the glass containers; nearer the light, Griffin Hartman, greyer and far more marked than twenty years ago, dropped another spirit-jar onto the floor. The earth around them seemed to flinch as if struck when the glass hit.

When Hartman looked up, an odd expression disfigured the tattoos of his face: "What are – do I know you?"

"A stupid question," Jools said, firing at him even as Wesley aimed at the closest minion.

The Contar demon went down hard; Hartman did not, although he wasn't quick enough to dodge the bullet completely. He reached in, plucked it out of his shoulder, and then stared at it, letting the blood run down his fingers and chest, discolouring his art. Jools was not pleased to see that the bastard seemed otherwise unaffected.

Wesley said under his breath, "Ah. A sign that Hartman is demon, no longer human: created by magick, not born. Problem." Then, as his shot took out the second minion, he rolled forward and grabbed the creature before the body could crash into the remaining spirit-jars.

Raising his head, Hartman tossed the bullet back at Jools. Easy enough to sidestep – not as easy to avoid the sparks upon impact of magick on wood, which burned into his trousers. "My Lady has taken care of me," the demon said. "Shall I take care of you?" He dug into his pockets, then brought out a fistful of some sort of powder and blew it toward him.

One shove of his shirt-sleeve, and Jools' marked wrist was bare. Angling his hand so that the mark was in front, he dispersed the powder harmlessly enough – although he could feel a slight burn on either side of his tattoo.

"The Mark of Amk? I must know you," Hartman said, his brow furrowing.

"I wouldn't say you _know_ me, old chap. One hardly remembers everyone with whom one trades, I should think, and it was a long time ago." Jools kept his gaze on Hartman, willing him to pay attention to the questions he was raising, rather than Wesley's stealthy progress to the shelves full of those taken. "On the other hand, this was one of your...what did you call them? Specials? And I was very drunk indeed the night you marked me, not to mention hanging on an attractively rough Italian sailor's arm. Buggered him senseless shortly after I left your delightful establishment, as I recall. Perhaps I might be more memorable than I supposed."

As he talked, he slid his other hand around to his second weapon, ready. Wesley was almost to the shelves, almost to the hourglass. That was their moment.

But Hartman suddenly whirled away, saying, "No, I don't think so," and kicked at Wes.

His son didn't take the blow – he caught the demon's leg and twisted, sending him reeling away from the shelves. The disturbance, however, was enough to shatter one more glass. When it broke, a released spirit howled upward, into the swirl of magick collecting on the ceiling.

A dimensional gate, smallish but regrettably real, formed in the darkness of the tunnel. Jools could feel the alien bite of other worlds reaching in.

Still, he would trust Wesley to deal with that aspect, while he explained to Hartman the serious error that had just been made. One leap, as easy as if he were playing squash with Rupert, and he had the demon by the scruff of the neck, his second gun pressed to his temple. "I really don't think you should have struck at my son," he said. "I find it irritating."

However, as the magick bullet provided by Roger Wyndam-Pryce went into Hartman's head, the gate creaked open. Wes put his hands on the hourglass. Then, in concert with the drop of the dead mage's body onto the floor, two large horned demons flew through the dimensional portal.

Jools sighed; he had _known_ there would be attempts at undocumented immigration. He raised his gun, just as Wes raised the hourglass –

But a third figure appeared just on the other side of the threshold: this one curves and shadow, not substance. Her husky female voice said, "Hey, lover. Better late than never."

"Lilah," Wes said. The time-piece almost slipped from his fingers..

***

Spike pushed the last obstacle aside, cursing under his breath in order to obscure the bloody annoying memory-flashes of caverns in Sunnydale and Africa, of bone-deep chill and fear. This had taken much too long. When the rock crashed against a wall he couldn't see, he said for the third time, "Wish you'd have warned us about this lovely welcoming fortress of stones and demon corpses, Harris. What sodding good are you?"

But Xander wasn't listening; he was already scrambling through the opening. Smelled like decay and torture on the other side, Spike realised – some of the old Watchers had been given to tasting demon blood in their secret dungeons, and yeah, that kind of pain never came out. Ahead of them came the sounds of shattering glass, like waves carving away at the shore.

And Faith sent Spike a patented Slayer-glare. "Wasn't his fault, Blond Boy. Give it a rest."

"Ah, petal, does young love have you in its thrall?" Still, he took her point. Wasn't really Harris's fault, neither that they'd run into a hastily built fortification, nor that Spike had been feeling an itch along his spine for the last half-hour. But bad things were coming, unless they got there first.

He and Faith burst into the tunnel together, following their navigator. It wasn't really a tunnel, he noted even as they ran, but a hallway. The heart of the dungeons, then – and the itch along his spine dug in like claws hollowing out bone.

The passage ahead curved, and for one sharp instant Harris was framed on the line between light and dark, vision and uncertainty. In that same breath the glass-smashing stopped. A demon's claw reached out and got the man by the neck, dragged him out of sight.

"Shit – hey, you fucking let him go!" Faith shouted, putting on even more speed and disappearing around the bend.

Right, then. Sod secrecy. His boots sliding a little on the passageway's floor, he made his own move into the light.

Just as Rupes and Anya's briefing materials had suggested, there were shelves and shelves of glass jars lining the Yeangelt team's workroom, lit by lanterns running along two walls. The roof was open to the world; a look up showed an empty, windswept night sky and the outline of a dimensional gate.

The hissing wind, spirits and such like, was coming from the broken glassware – which was being dropped by some poncy bloke decked out in a cloak, hood and gloves, as if he fancied himself quite the incarnation of Death. Of course Spike had personal knowledge that Death didn't look anything like a fucking Bergman film. "I'll take the pretentious one," he said, already in mid-leap.

Coarse black fabric bunched under his fist as he threw the first punch. Below the haberdashery was bulked-up demon muscle, though. The wanker blocked the next hit and then grabbed Spike's duster, his claws latching onto leather. "You smell like a Watcher, but – but you're a vampire?" he said, in a voice deeper than hell.

"'Smell like a Watcher'?" Spike said, shaking loose. "'s that a bloody insult, or what?"

Then his foot connected hard with the git's chest, driving him back.

A quick look showed that Faith had dispatched the demon trying to choke the life out of Harris, who sat gasping on the floor, and she was well on her way to another little one dead. Two minions were left, as well as two more impressive demons, ones who could pass for human. The latter were creeping toward the furthest shelves, where –

Right, the hourglass they had been briefed to destroy. Sand had almost run out.

"Sod the little ones, Faith! Go for the mission!" he shouted, making his own rush – until the flapping edges of a cloak came over his eyes. He stumbled forward.

A blur of Slayer passed him, her wind blowing enough of the cloak away so he could see again. A flip up, two hands around the ponce's throat, and a growled "I don't think so," before he twisted sharp to the right with all his strength. The crack of the git's bones and the soft sound of tearing muscle eased him on some deep level. Demon was still in him, after all. Couldn't leave him behind.

But he had his own purpose now, separate from the thing inside that craved the bone-crack and the blood. Gathering himself, he went to Xander. "Come on, you lazy bastard. No malingering, you're still on the job."

"Well, of course. Hour's work for an hour's pay, that's my motto." Coughing, Xander let Spike help him up, move toward the shelves. When they were almost there, however: "I can get there myself, okay, guy? Still got the protection and everything. Go lend Faith a hand with the enjoyable killing."

"Your girl's got it under control," Spike began, seeing Faith take out one of the senior demons with a nice flying kick to the teeth. "Thing of beauty, she is." But when the other senior demon slunk out of the shadows, coming toward them – no, coming toward the hourglass – Spike dropped Xander's arm. Harris could manage.

This demon was stronger than the fat ponce had been, or maybe he was just more desperate. Hot hell-breath, like those endless moments after Sunnydale fell; hands like clawed hammers; the willingness to cheat. Spike surrendered himself to the fight, letting it wash over him like the wind coming from the shattered glass, coming from above. He could strike out safely just this once.

Punch. Kick. Don't think about the losses, the pain. Aim for the heart. No, aim for the head. Punch. Take a punch. Take another. Let the fangs come. Yeah, better, sharper. Punch, follow the arc of the body, punch again. Let the corpse fall. Let it go, let it rest.

Closing his eyes, Spike brought his human features back. The wind blew harder now, and he could feel pressure-change above and below–

"Come _on_ , Blond Boy," Faith snapped. She and Harris were standing at the hourglass, their hands linked; with a slight pang Spike saw their connection, felt for a moment his solitude. The bracelets Anya had made for them glittered faintly in the lantern light, and his own weighed heavier for a second. But Faith frowned at him. "Want a fucking engraved invitation or what? Mission's not done, and you're part of this."

It probably wasn't right to smile, but he did anyway. Meeting them at the hourglass, he put his hand on top of theirs, and together they lifted the glass high. Together they chanted the words Rupes and Anya had given them. "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

When they dropped the hourglass, the dimensional gate slammed shut. In the same instant, the glass jars on the shelves burned a rich blue before they, empty now in truth, returned to translucence.

The woven bracelets snapped off the new Watchers' and Slayer's wrists, disappearing into the last trace of nothingness.

***

From the conference room came Randolph's excited "One down. The Bloomsbury team has come through," and Zoe's murmured response. Tom was still talking in a low voice to Harry, something about Special Branch. So the mission seemed to be going well enough, Andrew thought, even though only Willow could see whatever was happening with Giles and Anya.

But he didn't have time to worry about that. His purpose now was his best friend.

He'd pulled Dawn into the outer office and put her into her own desk chair when Willow had suggested the instruments of vision were bringing the portals too close to her, their semblance the same as reality. When she'd come with him without protest, it scared him more than.... He didn't have a comparison for how scared he was.

Now she sat in her chair, shivering in pain and still glowing that horrible green. Had it faded when Spike and Xander and Faith had shut the nearest gate? He couldn't tell, couldn't think, couldn't concentrate–

But he suddenly remembered Giles's lesson that morning. Maybe he could do something, after all.

Leaning forward from his place on the floor beside her, he caught her hands, his fingers linking with hers, white intertwining with green. Her touch didn't feel different, but– "Does it still hurt?"

She nodded, eyes down. She hadn't looked up since she'd curled into herself here, hadn't spoken since that first cry.

"Okay then," he said. He cleared his throat, swallowing all the frightened remnants of gay-loser-Andrew, of dumb-Tucker's-brother, of the nerd and the fool, of the murderer of his friend. ' _Take it down, keep it even,'_ he heard in his head. And he said in a deep, calm voice that sounded kind of like their mentor-guy's, "Dawn, look at me."

She didn't want to, but when she finally did, all he could see surrounding her irises was green sparks. It was worse than the black-oil worms, he let himself think just once, before he concentrated on what was real and important. "Good, sweetie. Now tell me who you are."

Her voice was quiet, cracked as if it hurt to breathe. "Andrew, no."

"Dawn." Take it down, keep it even. "Look at me, and tell me who you are."

"I'm the Key–"

"No, that's who you were. Tell me who you are."

Her fingers grasped his more tightly, even as the green in her eyes intensified, even as his peach of a girl seemed to dissolve into nothing but energy. Her touch didn't change. She managed to say, "I'm Dawn Summers."

"That's right. What else?"

"I'm Dawn Summers. I'm Buffy Summers's sister. I live with Giles and Anya and you. I'm a Watcher in training."

"Good. What else?"

"Andrew–" Her hold loosened, as if she would slip away from him. He wasn't going to let her.

So scared, _so_ scared, but he remembered the lessons, and he concentrated so that his voice didn't break. "Tell me who you are, Dawnie. And you keep right on telling me until Giles and Anya shut the last gate and make everything okay."

***

Wes stared at the gate – no, not at the gate but at _her_. Lilah, as he remembered her: long hair, longer legs, wicked smile, even that blood-red she'd worn when he'd seen her in the files room at Wolfram and Hart. But her eyes, oh God, showed him nothing but hell-torment. He felt too much to be able to speak, and the hourglass was slippery in his hands.

"It'll be all right if you can't save me," she said in the smoke-and-sex voice he'd heard in his dreams ever since his memory returned. When she came nearer the opening, the edge of her long silk scarf waved across the threshold, its scent bringing the taste of red wine and chocolate to his tongue. "Gotta say, though, I'd be fucking thrilled if you'd try again."

"Jools–" Wes got out, although he didn't know why he said his name. Confirmation he really wasn't insane, perhaps.

"Yes, right, I hear her," Jools snapped. At the sound of a gunshot, Wes looked away from her for a second. Two winged Sdea demons – no, just one now, the other a body brought down by his father's marksmanship. "I assume this is the girl you loved and lost? Regrettably, Mrs Giles didn't have time to tell me much about her. You should introduce us."

"Wes, lover," Lilah said. The scarf fluttered further over the border of the worlds now, the snap of it as loud as the fired weapon, louder than the howl of the taken spirits."It's time."

The Sdea landed between him and Jools – tricky, Wes thought, since if his father missed the shot, it either would hit him or take out the precious hourglass. He looked again at the marker of time: the green poison almost filled the bottom of the glass. Almost done.

"Don't move, son," Jools said, before two shots hit the demon between the eyes. As the huge winged body crashed to the ground, shaking the walls and floor in glass-rattling fashion, he added, "Lucky that worked. I'm out of bullets."

"I have more." But Wes was looking at Lilah, even as he worked the protection-bracelet off his wrist. "I had so much more for you," he said softly.

"Wesley. It just didn't work out." She smiled, weary and reluctantly sweet, as she had been in the files room. He could taste bitterness on his tongue, a protest, a curse, but he ignored it to look at her and listen. Her voice dropped a little, the sound of her after sex or at her most vulnerable. "But I had more for you too."

"Most affecting, really," Jools said, as the wind rose and a second gate formed beside the first. "Still, the mission calls."

"I know." Wes waited until his father had put his tattooed hand on the hourglass before he looked back at her – so close that he could see the marks his axe had left behind the scarf. Christ, he hurt. But he managed to hold out the bracelet, still damp with Thames water, almost to the edge of the gate. "I've done the research. Take the other half, Lilah."

With an effort she managed to grasp the edge of the weave, pulling him, Jools, and the hourglass closer to the other side. And she smiled again in a way that touched his memories, made them new.

He linked his index finger around the bracelet to keep it safe, before he looked at his father. "On your count?"

"Right. Three, two, one–"

Father and son chanted together, "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

And Wesley said alone, looking directly at her, "Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

The hourglass fell. Gates slammed, glass vessels flared bright blue then clear, the wind dropped. Mission accomplished.

Lilah's smile lingered even when the rest of her faded, even as the bracelet held between them winked into nothingness. "It means everything that you succeeded, lover," came the whisper, and then there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Wes sank onto the ground, empty as the rows of glass vessels surrounding him. Time seemed to freeze. He couldn't say how long he'd sat there before he realised he wasn't alone.

Jools had taken his place beside him, albeit a little awkwardly – hard to fit those long legs into a comfortable position on the ground, Wes supposed rather numbly– and lit one of those foul brown cigarettes. When he noticed Wesley was looking at him, he said, "Oh blast, where are my manners? Do you want a smoke?"

"No, thank you." Wes closed his eyes again. He was so very tired.

That was his only explanation for his lack of protest when his father's hand came to rest on his back. "You know, I do think your mother should have warned me that my son fancied himself a bloody Heathcliff."

Despite himself, Wes laughed. But it was bitter on his tongue, a protest, a curse, so he stopped.

Jools patted awkwardly, then dropped his hand. "Right. Well, you rest a bit, then we'll leave. A drink at the Traditionalists first, or perhaps some good beef at Simpson's–?" When Wes swallowed hard, the hand lifted away. "No. No, I'll take you home. When you're ready."

His father smoked two more cigarettes in that underground room full of corpses and broken glass before Wes could let himself go.

***

Blown by the wind of lost souls and the draught around the dimensional gates, the last leaves of the boium tree fell.

As they hissed onto the stone, a revenant leaf drifted onto blue Mikh skin. Giles could see Nalph shiver, then lie still under the bare branches.

"Is he dead?" Anya said, limping around to join him. She had to balance herself against the rolling cart; it must hurt her terribly to stand, he thought.

Even though he had the Cup, his hand bleeding pain even as he held fast, he allowed himself a breath to set aside his sword and cradle her face in his other hand. As his thumb brushed off a tear she likely didn't know was there: "I don't think so. But it's time, darling."

She leaned into his touch for another breath before pulling away and saying crisply. "Hourglass is right here where they left it." Awkwardly she bent down and grasped the time-piece. Green fire glowed through her fingers for a moment before the impression was lost.

Framed by the steel gate leading out to Charing Cross Road, Yeangelt tried to raise her hands. One of them – the one Anya had smashed, and well done indeed to his darling – hung almost useless. She held them out best as she could, although he felt no tug of magick, and she said, "You shall not trap us again –"

"Ignore her," Anya said. "Now, honey."

He put his hand on the other side of the hourglass, spreading his fingers to match his wife's hold. Together they chanted the words he and Dawn had devised after their hours of research: "Close the gate, keep us safe. Let all the taken and bound spirits find release."

When the last time-piece hit the stone, the steel gate rattled even louder than the closing of the dimensional gates. Blue light from the glass jars drew a pattern of lace on the walls of the passage. The flash of the released souls made him think of the candles that he and Anya lit in their home, and he murmured, "Love and safety."

"Not yet." It was Pennith, who had crawled inside the circle, leaving a trail of demon blood smeared on the stone, and who now fought to get onto his feet. Reaching back, he pulled Yeangelt in after him, and a faint crack came from the circle they'd burned. Their magick strengthened – Giles could suddenly smell bitter almond, sharp and deadly. Pennith hissed, "No matter about the other gates. My lady and I wish to go home, and we shall."

"We will take our Cup now, not-Beresfords, not-Watcher, not-Slayer." Yeangelt tried to move the cart, but her wound crippled her, as did Pennith's. Still, after her good hand fumbled for her companion's, they lifted their clasp high. Slowly, off balance, they began to draw something in the air, the movements leaving behind a fading line of fire.

"I don't consider her sign a good thing," Anya said to him.

Although he didn't feel loss or breathlessness, nor did the Cup shake in his hand, his tattoo began to burn. Worse, he could feel Anya's ache as if it were his own. Their pasts were wearing away, he feared – time to finish this. He called in thought to Willow, _Now, please_.

She was ready for them. _Tear them apart_ , she said in his mind, in Anya's, her words so loud they seemed to ring through the passage. Borrowed strength – familiar, yet better, clearer – flowed through him and his wife.

Yeangelt's sigil began to blaze in midair, hanging between the two pairs, the travellers and the ones who chose to stay.

Anya took his bleeding hand so that both of them held the Cup. With his other hand he grasped his sword, anointed that afternoon with Thames water and the elemental potion that the Mortimers had brought from Tor House. A different, better exchange, he thought. "Tear them apart," he and Anya said together, as they tossed the Cup high in the air.

When the vessel had first been split, the moon had been shining. There was no moon tonight, but still the vessel shone in the darkness as it spun, cobweb tracery of shadows in its wake.

Too late, Yeangelt cried "No," her hand reaching out alone–

But he sliced the Cup in two as it fell. The impact nearly wrenched his shoulder, but Anya managed to keep him steady. When the halves clattered on stone as they had done centuries before, Yeangelt and Pennith broke into fragments of old bone and magick, and then dissolved with a final hiss.

"Well, for all that effort, they weren't so tough in the end," Anya said – just as she collapsed.

"Anya!" Giles dropped his sword in a vain attempt to catch her. Then, groaning a little as aches blossomed everywhere, including his bleeding palm, he lowered himself to the cold ground to join her.

"I think I sprained my ankle when the late Yeangelt caught me. Ow. It really hurts," she said, just before she sank further down and put her head in his lap.

"I'm so sorry." He brought his other hand up to stroke her forehead, then thought to Willow, _Is everyone else all right?_

 _They are now,_ Willow sent back, an odd sense of relief in the words. _See you guys at home._

"At home? We're supposed to meet at the office," he said aloud.

"At least our op protocols weren't confused until now. No casualties that way," Anya said. She shifted around so that she could dig her hand in his near trouser pocket, fingers teasing against him.

He stirred. "Oh for fuck's sake, darling. Not here and now, surely–"

"Please use your brain. Handkerchief." She brandished the cotton square in front of his face. "Now give me your wound, honey, I want to bind it."

"Oh, right. Thank you, Anya, but don't jostle your ankle in the process," he said, even as he obeyed. A groan from behind recalled his attention. "Nalph, are you still with us?"

"Yes, David, I am." The familiar edge of formality had gone from his voice. "Excuse me, I of course meant 'Giles.'"

Without disturbing Anya's first-aid efforts, Giles looked back. Nalph – pale blue now, dreadlocks coming undone, worn and tired – was struggling to sit up. Giles said, "Ah. Should we assume that Yeangelt learned of your, um, divided allegiance last night?"

"You should. I was beaten, and my new pet Azi, my Haloo–" his voice faltered –"it was killed. But Yeangelt, o great lady, suggested I be kept for the final sacrifice before she and Pennith departed through their cursed Terminal. Since they were having to make do without the Cup of Xet, of course." He laughed, a broken sound. "You can imagine my mixed emotions when you two arrived, bearing the very object."

"My husband's research told us they couldn't be truly defeated without the use of their own symbol against them. 'Reverse it,' yadda yadda. And, well, it ran in his family." Even upside-down, Anya tied off his bandage so firmly that Giles had to bite back a protest, before she added, "We thought you wouldn't need to know in advance. Was that wrong, Nalph?"

He smiled at them. "No, it is quite consistent with the Mikh code. I did not share all I knew with you, after all. We exchanged rightful due, which is all we can ask."

At that moment the steel gate slammed open, letting in West End noise, smells and lights, and Tom Quinn and Zoe, who stopped short at the sight. Giles realised that the place might look a little odd – cart of empty glassware, demon blood drying on the stones, actual chattering blue demon, discarded backpacks and sword, and the bare branches of a dead alien tree arching over them all. But Tom recovered nicely. "Right, all well here, I know. It's done. Every threat has been neutralised, and all sites have been secured."

Yawning, Anya nestled in Giles's lap. "Espionage talk for 'no one except bad guys died,' I believe."

Zoe smiled. "Exactly. And Harry, belatedly on the team, has sent an MI5 car to take you two home."

"Let all who wish go home," Nalph said dryly.

***

The TV murmured in the background, some weird 1980s TV-movie romance that Willow didn't have to pay attention to. She yawned and snuggled deeper into the couch, bringing the cotton throw around her throat. It was warm and cosy here at Giles and Anya's, and as long as she stayed down here, there wouldn't be the loud sex-sounds she would face at the Marble Arch flat.

When Xander and Faith had dragged wearily into the Investigations and Acquisitions office, Willow had caught her best friend in a hug and hung on as tightly as she could. He was so sturdy, such a guy to hang onto. Then she'd whispered in his ear, "You know, during the mission I felt how much you care for her. You need to get yourselves back on track, sweetie."

He'd hugged so hard in return that she couldn't breathe. "I'll try. But you know you're always my best girl, Will," he whispered back.

She wasn't a girl any more, but some small part of her loved that she had someone who would forever think of her that way.

Still, no need to be present for the wall-banging and the "Oh fuck, baby" repetitions and the other various embarrassing and envy-making elements of Xander and Faith reunion smoochies. Not even two doors down in a small flat was far enough away; she'd had enough experience of it in Cleveland.

So she had come back to the Islington house with still shaken Dawn and Andrew and with Spike. The Mortimers were already gone, off to catch a late flight to Glasgow after all their hard work, and with them went her link to Tor House. She felt adrift, just for a moment, before she clutched again at the throw and at peace.

Giles and Anya had been waiting for them when they all got back, ready with hugs, British-guy congratulations, and some yummy food items ("the Almeida Brasserie has never let us down yet," Anya had said briskly) and blood for the undead team member. As they all ate, they'd also had what the juniors called 'a debriefing session,' chatter about what had happened and what shouldn't have. Giles and Anya both had gotten very quiet when Dawn said something about the almost-Key incident, then there had been lots more hugging. Even of Andrew.

It had been Scooby-like, in a way, but Willow knew it wasn't the same. She missed Buffy. She always missed Tara. So she had sat in the corner, watched, smiled. Waited for quiet.

Finally, because Anya had begun to whimper loudly every time she put weight on her injured ankle, Giles had picked her up in a very swashbuckly and un-Giles way and carried her upstairs to bed. Dawn had disappeared next, mumbling something about phone calls. Andrew had helped clear away the food before taking the dogs out. She'd missed where Spike had gone. But here she was, Willow alone.

Which felt okay, actually. "Close the gate, keep us safe," she murmured to herself, sinking deeper into the cushions.

"Does the spell still work?" Dawn said. She stood in the archway, the flickering light from Anya's candle-tree gilding her outline. Not green energy, though, not like those terrifying moments in the office. Just a pretty young woman. "You want some company, Willow?"

"Yes, and love some. Grab some couch, sweetie." She moved her feet so there would be enough room. Dawn snuggled in, then casually stole some of the throw. Grinning, Willow said, "That's the Dawnie-thief I know and love."

"Hey, it's almost _winter_. Give a girl a break." She laid her head on the back of the couch, looking at the terrible 80s love action on the screen. Then, quietly: "I, um, I tried to call Buffy just now."

"Oh. I'm guessing the whole 'tried' choice of words means she didn't pick up, huh."

"No, not on the cell or at home." Dawn twined the fabric more securely around her fingers. "She and her Slayer-gang beat the Tchith demon last night. Their last night, I mean, nine hours behind us? Anyway, when I didn't get her, I called Robson. Gave him a fast report, then got the info about big sis."

"But Buffy didn't answer," Spike said from the archway. When Willow and Dawn jumped, he waved the beer bottle in his hand apologetically – she thought he probably didn't know it looked like he was about to break it over someone's head. "Sorry. Passing by." Another wave with the beer bottle to indicate the spectrum of casual passing-by-ness. "Didn't mean to listen in."

"It's cool, Spike. Come on in!" Dawn said.

"No, petal, I've got... a thing. Yeah, I should–" He broke off, his gaze going to the screen. "Bloody hell! Is that Bruce Boxleitner?"

"Oooh! Is it _B5_?" Andrew said, appearing with the dogs behind him. As Cava vaulted over the arm of the couch and burrowed in between Willow and Dawn, he said, "Would this be an early ep, perhaps right after the introduction of Captain Sheridan, or–"

" _Please_ ," Spike said, with withering scorn. "It's not some crap sci-fi telly. Now, _Scarecrow and Mrs King_ – that was sodding televisual genius. Man and woman, drawn together for the good fight, working together and falling in love–" He stopped short. "Yeah, anyway. Wouldn't mind watching."

"It's just the usual Channel Five movie from the bad-TV vaults, but come on and grab the floor. Boys get the carpet, girls get the couch," Dawn said. "'Cause you snoozed, you lose, fellas."

"I'll go make popcorn!" Andrew said. "Please prepare your drinks orders for my return."

"Get me one of Giles's Tynant Blues, sweetie?" Then Dawn added, "But we have to keep it down, you guys. When Anya's not feeling well, Giles gets all 'shush, children, it must be silent for the recovery of my helpmeet and life-partner,' which is a total pain, but we humour him."

"Rupes is so bloody whipped." Spike sauntered into the room, then hesitated. With a start Willow realised that he was waiting for some sign from her. They hadn't talked much at all during that last Sunnydale year, not about his soul or what it was like to try to change. They probably should have talked.

"Like Dawnie said. Down in front, Spike," she said, giving him her best smile.

He smiled back, a rare sweet one like he used to give Buffy when he thought no one was looking. "Bossy-boots," he said, then folded himself gracefully onto the floor, the collie-dog stretching out in front of him.

As Dawn said something to Andrew about popcorn butter flavourings, as Cava dog-snorted on Willow's hand and sighed, as Spike snarked about the Bruce person's kissing technique, Willow decided that quiet was highly overrated. This felt just right.

***

As Xander watched Faith stride down the hall, he jammed his hands in his pockets.

Just a few steps down the hall to his tiny bedroom, just a few million new nerves as bad as those before the mission. He'd had thirty minutes that morning to come back and shower and change, post-hangover, and now he wondered if the bedroom looked as much of a disaster as usual. Wondered if he'd even know what to do when they got there.

They hadn't been alone together since that night in Cleveland. God, it'd been so romantic: breeze off the lake, dappled moonlight coming through the open curtains to mark their naked, post-sex selves, and one extremely stupid and scared Xander Harris burbling about breaks and not moving too fast and other phrases he'd learned from too much television, including the occasional programme of Dr. Phil.

He so could use a life-coach right now, he thought.

After Faith walked into his room like she owned it, he went in and shut the door behind them. Then he leaned back on the door to keep her in while he figured out what he needed to say.

There she was, weirdly still and wary, standing in the middle of the room and staring back at him. Dark-haired woman with an edge he could cut himself on, strength that could break him, hidden wounds he didn't want to make worse – like Cordy, like Anya (depending on her place in the hair-colouring chart), but at the heart, Faith. "Why do I always fall for the scary ones?" he asked, more to himself than to her.

"You think I'm scary? You got no fucking idea, sweetheart." She grinned, wicked and quick, but then her eyes dropped to his throat, and the smile died. "But yeah, I get that a lot. And, um, the demon-guy tried to strangle you tonight? Are you–" A whisper now, the question much more than just checking on his health. "You okay?"

He knew she was remembering her own hands at his throat, his world going black, fear everywhere – but that was so long ago. Hurt had been exchanged for items of similar pain value several times since then, and why the hell was he using an Anya-metaphor? He said, "You saved me this time. But hey, why don't you check anyway?"

She did that Slayer-stride thing, got right up close to him faster than he expected. He didn't flinch, though, and her fingers were gentle when they pressed against his bruises. Not many people knew Faith had gentleness in her. She pressed again, making it a caress. "I'm sorry, Xander," she said.

"Don't be. 'Cause we're going to do this right this time. Isn't that what you said? You know, on the phone, one of the actual times we spoke, and yeah, that was my fault."

"Yeah, I remember it. And we're gonna." And her mouth was on his, not gentle at all, tongue darting in as fast as any Slayer-punch. His arms came around her, cupping that sweet ass, bringing her in. This, he knew how to do. But she pulled back for just a second, that wicked smile so close and hot. "Take off your T-shirt, babe."

"Okay. Okay, sure, I suppose it _is_ a little ripe, what with the crawling through tunnels and the demon residue and the effects of mortal terror on a Watcher Facilities Administrator–"

Ending his babble, she yanked his shirt away herself, licking a hot trail up his chest as the fabric came off. Then, as she kicked off her shoes: "Rest of the clothes off, Harris."

"As you wish." It took approximately twenty-five seconds to work the jeans and boxers off – his hard-on making the job a little more difficult – and take off his own shoes and socks, all done without grace. The trembles caused by her shucking off her own clothes added another five seconds to the task. Then they were naked and he was flat on his back on the bed, with her above him, hot and creamy and ready to go. He said, "Ah, just like old times."

"No." Her eyes had gone darker – in hurt? And he thought, I did it _again_ , Jesus, how stupid can one man be –

She slipped the T-shirt she had been holding, his T-shirt, over her head. Then she followed the drape of fabric with a long stroke, cupping her breasts, arching up into the cotton and her own hands. His cock twitched at the sight, happy and yearning, and when she moved just a little, those Slayer-muscles took him in, just the tip. She smiled at him. "Gonna be so much better than old times, babe. Got you right here, got you inside and out."

"Yep, you got me," he said, moaning as she slid down all the way. "You can trust me this time, Faith."

Her smile got wider, wicked and gentle at the same time. "And you can trust me, Xander." Their hands linked as she started to ride, just like always. Just like never before.

***

The first thing Wes saw in the lamplit entry was his mother, sitting on the lowest step of the staircase, a shawl wrapped around thin shoulders. He had to blink to realise that it wasn't time past but time present, that he stood not with the ghost of his acknowledged father but the reality of his hidden one. "So you're both all right then," she said, rising to her feet.

"We're fine," Jools said. He shut the door behind them and threw his keys on the hall table. "It went according to plan, Elinor. All creatures great and small in the Thames Valley are safe for another day."

"I expected nothing less." She inspected them closely. "However, you're both filthy. Julian, your shoes are _ruined_."

"I do realise that. It's a source of soul-deep anguish already," Jools muttered.

"Well, if you wish to bathe, I'll put together some food and drink. Sandwiches, perhaps – and brandy for you as usual, I assume, Julian. What would you like, Wesley?"

"I'm not hungry, Mother. But thank you." He stood there, swaying on his feet, too tired and empty to deal with the rabbit-hole down which he'd fallen.

"You should eat. Long, difficult day, and long, emotional evening," Jools said, even as he headed for the stairs. After he bent to kiss Wesley's mother, he ran up the steps, saying over his shoulder, "Yes, brandy, my dear. And by the way, our son did very well tonight. Very well indeed."

"I expected nothing less," she said again, this time so clearly that Wes had to hear it. The words sounded odd and unfamiliar in her voice. Then she came a step closer. Still inspecting, still judging – until she said, "I know I don't deserve forgiveness, nor shall I ask you for it. But let me take care of you now."

Careful of his stubble, he kissed her on the cheek. It was all he could manage. "Thank you, Mother. But truly, I'm not hungry."

"Of course." Her hands lifted and fell, as if she'd thought better of embracing him. And he felt her gaze on his back, all the way up the stairs.

His room was quiet, dim, almost empty, besides the single bed and two bookcases which contained his childhood library and his academic honours and certificates. After he toed off his shoes, he sat down on the edge of his bed. Time seemed to freeze again, uneven icicles of memory in the corners of his mind. But it wasn't his solitary boyhood or his adult failures that he remembered. No, it was the way Angel had told him at their last meeting that when –not 'if', he only now realised, but 'when'– Wes was needed, he would be called. It was Fred babbling her goodbye and rattling off address after address for him to write her. It was Gunn calling him "English" one last time. Cordelia in the Hyperion, gorgeous and domineering. Lilah in bed with him, laughing while their hands linked.

Just ordinary memories, he thought.

A tap at the door, and Jools, resplendent in a dressing gown, walked in with a glass of red wine and a plate of sandwiches. "I know you told your mother you didn't want anything, but _try_ to think, my boy. Does you no bloody good to starve." He set the food down on the table and then put the wineglass into Wesley's hand. "The alcohol might make you sleepy, at any rate. Rest of the bottle's open in the kitchen if you need more."

The red reflected strangely on his fingers, Wes thought. "I don't– no, I...." He ground to a halt. "Thank you, Jools."

"Yes. Well, better late than never, what? And you need to keep up your strength. I'm taking you to tea with your great-grandmother tomorrow, and as Rupert would tell you, Lady Rosemary's rather intimidating on first meeting." Halfway out the door, he paused, and over his shoulder he said, almost dismissively, "Proud of you, you know. Want to show you off."

When the door shut behind him, Wes took a sip of his wine. It tasted like tears.

***

A sharp hurt woke Anya – her ankle, she realised groggily. She must have moved in her sleep. She vaguely remembered going to bed, after a tiring and painful evening and post-mission time spent with most of the Scoobies. As they'd all eaten and drunk and talked, they'd attempted to hog Rupert's attention, just like always. But then he'd brought her upstairs and gotten her some aspirin, bound up her ankle and put her to bed. Rupert –

Opening her eyes, she took stock. Yes, she was in her bed, wearing her nightshirt. Candlelight, wavering in the cold draught from the window they really needed to fix. She was lying on her side, with a pillow easing her now wrapped limb. Her husband, however, wasn't warming her.

He had arranged himself in what looked like a very uncomfortable position in their big bedroom armchair, his blanket-draped feet resting on their bed. His bandaged hand cradled an empty tumbler which was perched on his stomach, and his eyes (glasses off) were shut. He looked manly, and gold and silver in the candlelight, and still exhausted, and – "Rupert, honey."

A shudder, a murmured "Just another few minutes," and he sank further into the chair.

"Rupert _Giles_ , just what do you think you're doing?"

"Er, sleeping," he said without opening his eyes. "Which you should be too. Good night."

"Rupert."

"Anya." With that, he opened his eyes. "Darling, I move too much in my sleep, as you know very well. I could hurt your ankle without knowing it."

"Since I just woke myself up doing the same thing, I think the comfort of my husband's warm body is an equitable trade. And we've discussed this, honey, you know I don't like it when you're not with me." When he shifted his weight, his teeth bit into his lip. "See, now you're hurting yourself. You're too old to be sleeping awkwardly in chairs."

"Thank you. That's precisely what I wanted to hear," he said dryly. He pulled his blanket up further, exposing his feet to the cold, and shut his eyes again.

"You know what I mean! You have aches and pains. _I_ now have aches and pains. We should be having aches and pains together."

"Thus, my wife, with the working definition of our marriage." But he was smiling when he opened his eyes again.

"In, Rupert. But get your pajama bottoms off first."

Although he'd put his hand to his back, wincing as he moved, that made him stop. "May I remind you about commands?"

After pushing back the covers for him, she propped herself up on her elbow and smiled sweetly. "Rupert, please. I very much want you next to me, warming me up. Just you and me, skin to skin. Here, I'll take off my top as a pledge of good faith." Carefully so as not to hurt her ankle, she began to unbutton her nightshirt.

"I know what you're doing, you know." Eyes narrowed, he stared down at her. "This is the shadow-effect of your vengeance mark. I don't sodding know why, or for what, but you're trying to torture me. Wreak vengeance of some sort."

"It isn't either, and I am not." Which were lies, of course, but a quick look under her eyelashes revealed that he was already getting hard. Yep, a nice shadow-effect of his chaos mark, she thought, grinning a little. With a flourish she undid the last button and then slid one arm out of the nightshirt, letting the navy silk pool around her waist.

"For fuck's sake! Anya, you're a vengeful strategist, and I have half a mind to sleep in the study." The tumbler slammed down on his bedside table. Of course, then his pajama bottoms hit the carpet. Definitely a shadow-effect of chaos there, and a quite substantial one, she thought.

"I don't think you should tell lies, Rupert. Not when we're not working, anyway."

He blew out the candles before moving closer. Not in yet, though: "Do you promise to be good and not suggest any activities that would hurt your ankle?"

"Absolutely. Now please get in, I'm freezing."

Her shiver was feigned, but it was enough to have him crawl – not particularly gracefully; she could tell he really was sore – into bed next to her. He managed to find a position that got him quite close without touching her, and then pulled the duvet over them. He brushed a kiss on her forehead. "There, dearest. Now please go back to sleep."

"Hang on. You're still too far away." She held him in place while she wriggled closer, so that his erection was snug and warm against her stomach, his breath in her hair, and his hand finding a place on her bottom.

She gave him five minutes before he figured out a way around tonight's technical difficulties.

In the meantime, she relaxed into him, at ease for the first time since – "How long have we been working the Yeangelt case, honey?"

"Months now." He began to absently stroke her back, feathering up one side of her spine and down the other. She could feel herself melting, yearning toward him, and she rested her own hand on his waist. "A difficult job. Bloody lucky that everyone could help."

Not everyone, she wanted to say – but that would disturb the moment. Besides, she was already jealous enough of the ones who were here. "It was terrifying. Except strangely not as bad as I feared."

This time his mouth found hers: taste of Scotch, taste of reassurance, hint of chaos. "You did beautifully." Another kiss, before his quiet, "Are you glad you stayed?"

"Always. With you, always. Anchored."

His hand drifted down to cup her bottom again, then dip further down; she moaned at the slide of his fingers through her wetness. Against her stomach she could feel the honey from the tip of his cock. "I love you, Anya. But what should we do to thank everyone?"

She let her fingers trace down the veins in his arm, making him shiver a little, until she caught his hand and helped him lift her thigh – the one with the injury. Carefully, he moved her leg up to drape over his thigh, her ankle protected, then shifted so he was nestled just right. Not in yet, but soon. She said, "Love you too. And I was thinking of a party tomorrow night. Before the Cleveland residents go home?"

"What?" When he raised his head to stare at her, she moved her hand around to his arse and pressed him in – always a perfect fit. Even as he slid inside her, hot and thick, he repeated, "Oh Christ, darling....A party ?"

"Oh honey, right there....Yes. A social occasion with food and beverages....Honey, honey... I've already talked to Harry at the wine shop about our order." Experimentally she moved her top leg, brought him closer. His arm banded around her, and – oh God yes. "Rupert–"

"Shut up. We'll talk about this later," he whispered, his other hand slipping under her shoulder so he could wrap it in her hair. Nice, hard tug of pleasure-pain, and he said, "Stay still, dearest. I'll do all the work." He began to move in earnest, hitting everywhere just right.

To hell with technical difficulties, she thought dizzily.

***

' _Mommy's all right, Daddy's all right, they're both just a little weird....'_

An old AOR tune blared out to meet Xander and Faith as they crunched toward the front door of Giles and Anya's house. Looked festive tonight, Faith thought, and she swung his hand. "Nice flowers and shit in the pots, don't you think? Fancy touch."

"Yeah. Say, whatever did you do with the apology-flowers I gave you?"

"Tossed 'em in the trash." When he flinched, she leaned over, said "Wouldn't do it again, babe," and kissed it better. So easy, so comforting to know that this time he was there to kiss back. Light from the lantern washed across her shut eyes, she leaned in closer–

"Excuse me. If we could get through–?"

She turned around to see the MI5 head dude, Tom, standing there with raised English-guy eyebrows. Fucking good-looking English guy, she had to say – tall, dark and built, but way too intense, like her own English Watcher-pal. She was so over the crazy intense types. Grinning, she said, "What'll ya give us to let you pass through the gate?"

"We brought drinks. How would that do?" That came from the Zoe chick, who did dress up nice, walking up the path with this _fine_ black guy. "Oh, and Xander, Faith, this is Danny."

"Hey, Danny. And if you have water, Zoe, that'd be great," Xander said. When she sent him a what-the-fuck look, he blushed. "Not in the mood for alcohol tonight. Got to be fully up to speed to handle you, sweetheart."

"Harris, you're a prince," she whispered, and slid her hand under the waistband of his jeans. He startled into her fingers, made a little squeak.

As Tom shouldered past them and rang the doorbell, Zoe handed Xander a bottle from her sack. Looked like a Dasani. "Here you go. Straight from the Thames."

"Yes. It's magic," Tom said. Faith could have sworn the SOB didn't crack a smile.

The front door swung open on lights and music, voices and doggy barks and food-smells. And Andrew smiled and extended his arm like he was on _Master-fucking-piece Theatre_. "Welcome, guests! Please do come in."

***

Lots of noise coming from the lounge and the hallway, so they had to shout–

"Rupes, I'm tellin' you that she didn't. Know our history's complicated and what all, but believe me on this one."

"For fuck's sake, Spike, I was _there_. At the Paradiso gig in '76, Patti did sing the alternate verse to 'My Generation.'"

"Hey, I didn't go to New York until the next year, mate. Spent '76 enjoying the European scenery. Happened to be there, and she didn't warble the tune."

"Frankly, I wouldn't trust your, er, powers of recollection. Can you truthfully tell me that you weren't fucked-up on some bizarre vampire mixture of blood and whatever street drug you could find?"

"Bloody hell, Rupes, like you weren't? Bet you were all Rippered out on chaos and the finest Amsterdam street shit and what all – okay, no blood, of course, but other than that–"

"Right, that's it," Giles muttered, acting like he was going to roll up his sleeves and do a little Fyarl smash-and-bash. "It's time someone taught you a lesson, you little prat."

"And that someone would be you, Watcher?" Grinning, Spike raised his bottle of Bishop's Tipple to his mouth and took a long drink. Best sodding party he'd been to in forever.

"Would you two stop?" Anya said, leaning forward to steal her husband's glass of wine. She'd perched herself on the kitchen counter, her legs wrapped around Giles's waist where he leaned back against her, Giles's free hand protecting her wounded ankle. After she had a sip: "I'm getting bored by this pointless argument about music I dislike."

"Well, if you would actually use the crutches I got for you, darling, you could go off and find a conversation more to your taste." Rupes stole back his glass and took his own sip.

"But I like having you carry me everywhere. It's the way things ought to be," she said, laughing before she gave the old man a little nip on the ear. Which, actually, he didn't seem to mind.

"Ha ha. If I'm too old to, er, 'sleep awkwardly in chairs', I'm too bloody old to be carrying you around."

"Don't know about that, but Willow thinks it's 'swashbuckly,'" Spike offered. When the other two stared at him, he said, "What? Merely repeating what I heard."

Before Rupes could do another Fyarl impression, the doorbell rang. Dawn sped across the archway, and then they could hear her say, "Hey there, Wesley! Come in, come in."

"Wes!" Spike said at the same time Giles did. They shot suspicious glances at each other before Spike continued, "In the kitchen, mate!"

Smiling, the Head Boy appeared in the archway. He looked a bloody sight better than he had the day before, as if he'd got his first good night's sleep in aeons. "Hullo, everyone. Seems like I'm a bit late, I'm sorry."

"Wes, we missed you last night. Come here so you can get your congratulations hug," Anya commanded. When he obeyed, she did a clumsy slide around in order to give him a tight one-armed embrace. "Look at you! Why, you seem at least fifty percent less crazy."

"Is everything all right? With the, er, Jools, and everything." Giles hesitated. "I know you had tea with Lady Rosemary today."

"Oh, right, sipping a bit of the old Darjeeling with the toffs," Spike said before he remembered that weird pre-mission moment with the Siviter bloke and the use of the word 'son.' "No, really. Like Rupes said, is everything all right?"

"It's better." Wes looked away for a second, then smiled. "It's fair to say that it's better, which is more than I would have hoped for."

"Good. Watcher resurgent, eh?" Giles said with a smile.

Wes said blandly, "True enough. Does this apply to you as well, Giles?"

Anya slapped her hands on her husband's chest. "Yes, Rupert, you need to talk to Wes about that." When he looked over his shoulder to send her the official Giles Stare of Death, she shrugged. "I told you the subject was only tabled. You have to consider the offer. Think."

"Anya–"

"Your wife is of course correct, Giles." Wes wandered toward the table and picked up a handful of sate sticks from the spread. Looked good, actually – Spike took a couple for himself. "We should talk about the job."

"If you'll take me out to the lounge first, honey, then you could come back and be all Watcher-y with the boys." She scooted forward, wrapping her legs and arms more securely around him. "As they say in films set in the American West, giddy-up."

Spike could hear Rupes's teeth grinding from all the way over there, but he said, "Right. If you'll excuse us–" With only a little wince, he caught her legs and struck out across the room. Demon-girl threw a blazing smile over her shoulder as they went.

Their departure meant Spike could turn his attention to the Head Boy, whose smile was already beginning to fade. "Seriously, Percy."

"Seriously, Spike." A cracker consumed before he said quietly, "Sorry I didn't check in with you yesterday after the mission. But I had lunch with Faith today – she tells me it went well?"

"As smooth as a sodding baby's arse. We missed you, though. How was it, working with James Bloody Bond?"

Wes looked down at the food. His hands absently building a little pile of cheese in one corner, he said, "More than I would have hoped for."

***

 _' _You're my-yyy favourite waste of time....'__

As he spun Faith around the hallway in a little dance, Xander sang along (badly) with the old power-pop song on the sound system. From her perch with Andrew on the stairs, Dawn rolled her eyes. Xander's effort was pathetic; she so couldn't believe she'd ever had a crush on him.

"Can't believe you're calling me a waste of time, Harris. 'Bout to get yourself smacked across the English Channel," Faith said, pulling away even though it was clear she loved it. "You'd think you'd know what the hell was romantic and what wasn't by this time."

"You would think, but you would be wrong," Anya said, as she and Giles passed through the hallway. When Giles spanked her leg, she said in irritation, "Excuse me, Rupert. If I'm not allowed to do sexually arousing things to you in public, defined by you as 'watched by people we know,' then you're not to do them to me–"

As the master and mistress of the house disappeared into the lounge, Xander and Faith looked at each other. "Want to go in the kitchen and talk to the undead and the restless?" he asked.

"Hell yes. 'Cause I just got a visual I fucking did not want to have," she said. After he swung her around once more, they danced through the archway.

Which left Andrew alone with Dawn. There was something she really needed to say to him, and there just hadn't been time so far. Still, this would require careful handling. Brushing her hair against his shoulder, she said, "Want some of my prosciutto, sweetie?"

"I'd love a nibble, thank you."

When he took the slice from her hand, she said, "I owe you a lot, you know, Andrew. You helped me so much last night."

"'Take it down, keep it even.' Just an application of the Giles Watcher-voice, as taught by Rupert Giles. No big deal." But his blush showed how pleased he was by her praise. He took another bit of ham from her plate and munched.

"It was a very big deal. Do you know how scared I was?" How she had felt like she was tearing apart, molecule by molecule, collapsing into a force bigger and yet less than herself, Dawn Summers – she shivered at the memory. "I mean, how really scared I was?"

"I was scared too, Dawnie." He spoke quietly, without any of his flamboyant voice-things. It meant that he was as serious as he could be. "You're my peach. My best friend."

She smiled at him. "And you're mine, Andrew. Which means I want to do stuff for you, about which you won't get mad–" The doorbell rang at that moment, before she could even prepare him. This might be better, in fact: a quick glance at her watch showed that another guest was right on time. "Why don't you see who's here?"

"Of course." He stood up and assumed his role of Andrew Wells, Party Host. Biting back her giggles, she watched him stride across the hall and throw open the front door. "Welcome, come in," he said, then stopped. "Ian?"

Ian Matthews, the tall, punked-out guy from many evenings at the Duke of Nowhere and who Dawn knew for a fact was Andrew's Secret Crush, stood on the threshold. "Yeah. Hey, Andy." He offered his hand, which Andrew took like he would a time-bomb. "Dawn called me, said you were having some party-thing. Said that you'd be here and what all."

"Yep. Here I am," Andrew said cautiously.

"Right." Ian stuck his hands in his back pockets – Dawn thought the move did a nice job of emphasizing his attributes. "Anyway, so I came. Oh, Dawn, evening."

"Hey, Ian, glad you could make it."

"Yeah. Anyway, Andy, hear you're a comics fan? I am too. Thought we might talk, yeah? See if our favourites are the same." Smoothly, he slipped out one hand to rest on Andrew's ass. Dawn suppressed another giggle; Ian Matthews was a bad, bad boy. "Want to show me around, get me a beer or something?"

"'Kay," Andrew said, hitting a note somewhere above Cava's yelp when Giles accidentally stepped on her paw that one time. Then he lowered his voice to Andrew Wells, Super-spy. "Sure. Yeah, Ian."

As he led Ian into the kitchen, though, he threw her a quick 'What?' look, half thrill, half terror. She blew him a kiss.

Dawn Summers paid her debts and took care of her friends, she thought. That's who she was.

***

It was too noisy for Wes inside. The kitchen had filled up with people, and much as he liked all of them (except perhaps that strange protege of Anya's), he still felt a little too raw for flash and chatter. Besides, he'd spent much of the afternoon being interrogated by his great-grandmother, and he deserved a break.

Taking his glass of wine – white this time, he wasn't in the mood for red – he left the kitchen. The lounge was too full of people as well. Anya held court on the sofa, with Giles leaning indulgently over the back and smiling at her even as he talked to Willow and Tom Quinn; husband and wife seemed golden in the reflected glow from the nearby lamps. Not the time to talk business, Wes thought. He couldn't see who was sitting in the chairs nearer the door, but it was still all too much.

The French doors at the end of the hallway beckoned – panes that didn't reflect, London-dark that soothed. As he went, he heard the scrabble of dog paws, just before he was buffeted by Macallan on one side, Cava on the other. They must want to escape too, he thought, and he opened the doors for them all.

Even in late October, Anya's garden was lovely. Rows of shrubbery and autumn plantings gleamed in the low light; in one corner, the laceprig web shone as if tiny sparks burned eternally on Belgian lace. Smiling, he sat on the table and drew his feet up. Then he closed his eyes and breathed in the night.

For the first time in months, he didn't have a headache. And his sleep had been free from dreams the night before.

He didn't know how long he rested in the dark, sipping his wine while the dogs rolled but played, how long until he heard the doors open. "I'm sorry," he said automatically, looking back over his shoulder.

When he saw a woman's form silhouetted in the doorway, his heart constricted. ' _It means everything that you succeeded,'_ he heard again, a whisper from far, far away. Then there was nothing but the woman in the doorway, the flutter of silk against skin–

And the dogs barked happily and bounded to her. When she bent down to pet them, murmuring to them, in a shaft of light from inside her face was lit. It was Zoe. One hand on Cava's head, she looked up at him and smiled. "Hello, Rory."

"Hello, Troy."

She stood, twirling her own wine glass in her hand, gazing around the garden. "Oh, it's lovely out here – Anya and Andrew have put in so much work. At any rate, I was wondering....may I join you?"

He closed his eyes, so he could hear the voice whisper to him in wine and chocolate, smoke and tears for the last time. Then he opened his eyes and smiled at her. "I'd like that. Please."

***

Giles looked at the empty glass in Anya's hand, then whispered in her ear, "Do you want another Viognier, darling?"

"Yes, please," she whispered back, her lips against his cheek in a smile. Then she turned back to Danny – "So you're telling me that Ruth is interested in _Harry_?"

"Shocking, I know," Danny said, shaking his head. There was nothing that Danny and Anya liked better than gossip, Giles thought, yet they so rarely got to indulge. This truly made it a party for them.

He made a point to brush his hands over Dawn's and Willow's heads on his way out, and he was rewarded by grins in return. The comments Willow had made before the mission still burned a little – since then, he had tried to show them all he was happy to have them here, even Xander. He was trying, anyway.

He could see the kitchen through the archway. Spike of course hadn't moved from the food and beer supply. He, Xander and Faith were laughing with Andrew and...that pillock Ian Matthews? Who practically had his hand down Andrew's trousers?

Giles stopped in the entry, blinking at the scene. Then he sighed. "What does Anya say? 'A Watcher can take care of himself,'" he muttered. Which was complete bollocks, actually, as he had proven time and again. Absently he sent his fingers through the topmost flame on the candle-tree, felt a tiny burn –

Just as the doorbell rang. Blowing on his fingertips, he opened the door, saying, "Hello –" And then he swallowed hard. "Hello, Buffy."

There she stood on the path, framed by the open gate behind her, a piece of hand-luggage at her feet. He took in the sight of his Slayer – no, not _his_ Slayer any more, he corrected himself. Just Buffy, looking travel-weary but fit and more at ease than he'd seen her in years, with a small smile on her face: "Hey, Giles. Nice place you and Anya have here."

"Yes. Er, hey." He made himself smile through what felt very like panic. "Come in, come in. Small end-of-mission party – Dawn will be thrilled to see you, of course, but the other Scoobies and Faith are here as well...." A burst of wild laughter from the kitchen confirmed his statement, and he gestured aimlessly before reaching for his glasses.

"So you guys won, I take it?" She didn't move. "I only just heard that something biggish was going down here – we've had email troubles in Baja, all kinds of troubles with the phones and stuff, and – anyway, when I got off the plane in Cleveland, Robson said there'd be apocalypse over here too?"

"No, not apocalypse. Localised end of life as we know it, that's all. But our team stopped it." He forced another smile, made himself put his hand down before he started polishing his lenses, and then stepped over the threshold. "Here, let me get your bag."

"No, not yet." It was the dismissive tone he'd heard all too often in the last months of Sunnydale. When he looked again, however, she was still smiling. "Could we talk for a sec before I go in? Maybe shut the door?"

"Of course." Bracing himself for more reproaches, he pulled the door to, and then turned to her. "What would you like to talk about?"

Her arms were crossed over her chest in a gesture he'd grown to dread – but then she started to rub them briskly, saying, "Ooh, it's cold here! Nice thing about Mexico is the sun, you know? London's just as cold and damp as advertised. Okay, not _advertised_ , like 'Come to England, freeze to death, yay,' but you know what I mean."

"It's a lovely night," he said, "but I can imagine it would be a change for you. Er...did you wish to discuss the weather?"

"No. No, I'm kinda – no." She dropped her hands. "I wanted to talk about Baja. About the last month or so."

He had no idea where this was going, but then she had always had the gift of surprising him. "Tell me about Baja."

"Okay. Okay, so it was me, and Robin Wood–" he felt a stomach-lurch at the name– "and five under-seventeen Slayers. We were in this little village on the Gulf, with lousy bus service and worse TV and internet access, and we had to learn all the lore – you know, _lore_ , about 'lo, the Tchith-demon cometh' – as well as train. Which meant trying to make these little girls read extremely boring tomes and talk to people and work out, and, please." She shuddered dramatically. "They were so annoying. The girls, I mean. They wouldn't listen to me, and they wouldn't understand what we were doing, and one day, swear to God, I almost found myself making flashcards to explain it to them."

"Oh, no, Buffy. That never works."

"Well, I get that _now_." She smiled again, a little nervously. "I get a lot of things now. One night near the end, when it was tenser than tense, Serafina – the littlest Slayer – just hauled off and yelled at me about what a bitch I was, so unreasonable, I just didn't understand anything, yadda yadda. And I, um, yelled back."

"Well," he said slowly, "that happens."

"Yeah. But see, I got it. I really got it for the first time."

"Got what, exactly?"

"Got how it was for you." She looked down, scuffing at a stone on the gravelled path, before she said in a rush, "In Sunnydale all those years, I mean. How hard, how frustrating – anyway, it was what I needed to see." And she looked up at him, all smiles gone. "All those things I said about you letting me down and betraying me and leaving me, I don't need a Watcher, whatever – I still sort of feel like that. But I get it now, I really do, and I can forgive you."

As he stared at her, trying to understand what she'd said, a sudden surge of anger threatened to drown him. How dare she stand there, forgiving him when he hadn't forgiven her–

And he saw it at last. "Oh Christ, no."

"Giles?" She stepped forward, put her hand on his arm. "Um, that really wasn't the reaction I was expecting."

He looked down at her bent head, and he understood. He had made all the right noises, spoken sanctimoniously about forgiveness and what people needed, and he had thought he meant them. But they had been lies. Even as he had choked in guilt for his own sins, he had never forgiven her. Neither for Jenny and Angelus, nor for that first year of college where every day she'd made him feel useless, nor for the way she'd treated him and Anya when he returned for the final fight. Those were small wounds, however, compared to what lay at his heart. Most of all, he had never forgiven her for dying, no, for choosing to go and leave them. For a moment he had to fight back his own father's words, 'Apparently you just don't care.'

"I am not a generous man," he said, almost to himself.

"Well, okay. But that's kind of irrelevant," she said. "'Cause this was my deal. You know, go to Mexico, have an epiphany."

So very Buffy, he thought. His fingernails were digging so hard into his bandaged palm that he had started to bleed again under the wrapping. As the physical pain came, a tide of aching, he let the rest of his anger go. Different, better choices – now that he knew the truth, he could change it.

She made one of her Buffy-faces, as cute and vulnerable as if she were in the old library again. Lightly, to cover what he knew were nerves: "And I got a great tan and killed the demon too. If that counts."

"Of course," he said, holding out his arms. "But I'm more grateful you told me. Grateful for the forgiveness, I mean, Buffy."

In a burst of energy – like Dawn, he thought – she was there, hugging him too hard, the way she had done the first time he'd seen her after her resurrection. "It feels so much better not to be mad at you," she mumbled into his jacket. "God, it feels so much better."

"Yes. I'm sure it does," he said, letting himself feel the fresh pain as well as the love. He could tell her of his own new understanding, but...no. One last lie to his Slayer, he thought. He held on just as tightly and let himself remember the good.

He never knew how long they stood there, silent in the cold, until the door opened on a wave of music and voices and Anya's head popped out. "Rupert, are you– Oh. Oh." She made a little face, quickly suppressed.

Clearing his throat, he winked at her to make her smile."Darling, look who's come to visit us!"

"Yes, I see." Awkwardly Anya hopped out of the house, pulling the door shut behind her, and gave a passable impression of her usual beam: "Hello, Buffy! Welcome to London and our home."

"Hi, Anya!" With another burst, Buffy was there hugging her, swaying dangerously. "I've missed you."

Anya looked at him over Buffy's shoulder. 'Is she crazy too?' she mouthed.

Knuckling away what rather embarrassingly seemed to be a tear, he shook his head. "Anya, Buffy's just finished her job in Mexico and thought she'd come see Dawn."

"And see you guys too. Um, I kinda missed the wedding, huh."

"Yes, including the time-honoured tradition of the wedding gift," Anya said tartly. When Buffy pulled back, his wife continued, "But it's fine, really. Your presence is your gift." She paused. "God, that sounds stupid."

"I _have_ missed you, you know," Buffy said, with one more hug. "Who'd have thought."

"I would have," Giles said, as he picked up Buffy's bag. "Because Anya is inimitable and irreplaceable. And also not supposed to be walking on her sprained ankle – dearest, what the bloody hell are you thinking?"

She smiled at him a little shakily. "Rupert, I just wanted to find you."

"Now that you have, we should go in. Actually, Buffy, if you'll take your bag, I can carry Anya–"

"No. No, honey, I want to stay out here for a minute, okay?" She did one of her 'get the hell out' hand-gestures. "You two go in."

"Are you sure? I'll be right back to check on you," he said, bending down for a kiss. Which was a mistake because she could taste the salt of tears, he realised when her hands clamped on his jacket. "It's fine, darling," he whispered, then said to Buffy, "Well, all right, let's go in."

She ran her fingers through her hair. "Okay. I can't wait to see Dawnie, and Willow and Xander – and did you say Faith was here?"

"You mean Robson didn't tell you who came to help us?" he said, opening the door for her.

"It was kind of a 'hi, London apocalypse, bye' thing. Not so much with the talking and the list of visitors to England." As she went inside, she let out a breath. "Oh, Giles, it's beautiful. And the candles, and – oh, it looks like home."

"And we hope you'll treat it that way." Before she could go any further, he stopped her, putting a finger to her lips as she started to speak. He called, "Dawn? Could you come here for a second?"

"There speaks the boss's voice. I have to do what he says," she said. A burst of speed, and then she was in the hall. And then, "Buffy?"

"Dawn. Oh, Dawnie, who said you could get taller than me?" They were in each other's arms, rocking back and forth, beginning to cry.

"Buffy!" Willow shouted from the lounge, at the same time Xander shouted it from the kitchen. There was the thunder of feet, and then a Scooby-pile right in the middle of the hallway, until they couldn't be distinguished from each other.

Finally Faith said, leaning against the archway, "Hey, B. You still under there?"

"Hey, Slay-pal," Buffy said, sniffing as the others let her breathe. "Missed you in Mexico."

"Oh yeah, I bet." Faith grinned. "Nice skin damage there."

It looked like the last step was up to him, Giles thought. Very gently, he turned Buffy toward the kitchen.

Spike was standing alone by the table. With great deliberation he set his beer down before he looked up. Swagger was gone, and he said quietly, "Hello, Buffy."

"Spike." She stood there, alone now too as the others backed away. In a note of disbelief: "Spike?"

As the two of them stared at each other, Giles said under his breath to Dawn, "You're in charge. Tell Faith not to let them break any furniture."

"You got it, Giles," she said.

He went back out to get his wife.

***

Standing on one foot with a hand on the wall for balance, shivering a little in the cold, Anya stared at their front garden. The back was where they spent most of their time – here there was only a small patch of grass for the dogs, some trailing vines over the low stone fence lit by a nearby street lamp, and the pots of flowers she'd brought out for the party.

And for Buffy's arrival, apparently.

She poked at the thought like she'd touch her arm when it went to sleep, feeling the bitter tingles as nerves came back awake. It was like that when she remembered who she was as Aud, and it was like that now when she remembered how terribly jealous she always had been. Not of Buffy as Buffy, of course, that would be silly, but of what Buffy represented in Rupert's life. It had been there with Xander, but so much worse with Rupert. So much worse.

She stared out at the garden again, ignoring the noises from inside the house. Andrew was going to need to mow soon, even though the season was on the turn. She might need to cut back some of the vines, too.

Rupert had seemed – lighter, somehow, when she had looked out just now and seen his Slayer in his arms. Buffy had hurt him so terribly, Anya knew, and it was better that they were on good terms again. Maybe he'd pay attention to everyone now when they told him he was a good Watcher.

More nasty, bitter tingles. Because hadn't she been telling him for months, which he'd just shrug off? But now–

She caught herself, literally caught herself when her other leg almost buckled beneath her. The jolt and the small ache of stucco scraping on already bruised skin, pressing against her wedding ring, stopped the familiar pattern of irritation. Pain gave a nice moment of clarity, she realised.

The second she'd looked out just now, Rupert had seen her and smiled at her. He had called Buffy's attention to her. He had praised her, and kissed her, and told Buffy to carry her own damn bag (without the 'damn') so he could take care of her. He also had said he'd be right back –

The door opened behind her. Yes, there he was. "Anya, for fuck's sake–" he snapped, in just the tone of aggravation she adored, and his strong arms came around her, lifting her up, taking her weight. "What the sodding hell are you doing?"

"I'm not jealous," she said, winding her arms around his neck.

"I'm sorry, I think I missed a step in our conversation." A little clumsily he adjusted her in his arms. "What?"

"I'm not jealous of Buffy. Or of Willow, or certainly Xander. Actually I can say I was never jealous of Xander." She pressed a kiss to his jaw.

"Yes, but that doesn't make any –" He broke off, mouth dropping open. "Anya!"

"No, Rupert, not _that_ way. I mean..." It was going to sound stupid when said aloud, she realised. But different, better choices – "I mean I want to be first in your life, and with the Scoobies around, I wasn't. I thought."

His gaze softened, so sweet, as sweet as the kiss he gave her. "That's ridiculous. You're definitely first, darling." Then, another adjustment in his hold before he said, "Also, you're getting heavy. Just a second."

"Are you saying I'm getting fat?" she demanded, as he started down their path.

"No, I'm saying we had a bloody difficult mission yesterday and I've been carrying you everywhere for the past twenty-four hours. I'm tired." He deposited her on their stone fence. It was a good height – their mouths were on the same level. She reached up and took off his glasses, then kissed him to check.

Nice lip movement, dangerously skilled tongue, love and a hint of wine and more love – and she did believe a bit of chaos was lingering still in his system. When they broke apart, breathing a little harder, she said, "Strange. You don't seem tired."

"Er, my strength's coming back to me." He tried to sneak another one in–

But she put her hand flat on his chest, holding him off. "Not that I wouldn't kiss you happily until daybreak, but why are we not inside at our party? Especially since your Slayer is newly arrived?"

"Well, she and Spike were goggling at each other when I left. No real rush to get back."

"Oh. Oh." She looked at him carefully – he was half in shadow from the streetlight, but she could still see him. "Are you okay with their possibly renewed relationship, or are you hoping for a continued split?"

He hesitated. "I'm faintly nauseated by either possibility, actually. But you know, it's none of my sodding business." One of those white-flash smiles she'd never seen until they were in love. "My wife is my business."

"I have never been less jealous in eleven hundred years," she announced, right before she leapt on him. Luckily he was there to catch her. She whispered against his mouth, "Say, honey, want to run away?"

"Anya–"

"'Cause I just had an idea." She slipped her hand down the front of his trousers, past the substantial bulge and over to his pocket. "Car keys."

His mouth took hers. Deeper, sweeter – but "We can't, darling, you know we can't."

"I'm not talking about really running, honey. I just thought we could go back to the beginning. Same choice, just as good?" She took his chin in her hand and directed his gaze to their Saab, which was parked in front of their house. Their car with the newly tinted windows they'd got for Spike's visit. Their car with a nice, big backseat.

The music and voices were getting louder again inside their house. He cast one glance over his shoulder, then another at the car. House. Car. House – "Oh, sod it," he said.

And her Watcher-spy husband picked her up and carried her out of their gate.


End file.
